i  •  •  •  I  •  •  I  •!    ||   I||H  ||  [ 

3  1822  01383  5665 


LIBRARY 


3  1822  01383  5665 


p^ 


FIVE    BOOKS   OF   SONG 


I.  THE  NEW  DAY 

II.  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

III.  LYRICS 

IV.  TWO  WORLDS 

V.  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 


FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 


BY 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1894 


Copyright,  1875,  1878,  1880,  1885 
1887,  1891,  1893,  1894, 

BY  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 
All  rights  reserved. 


PRELUDE 


CONTENTS 
•f 

THE  NEW  DAY 

PAGE 

3 

PART   I 

I.  SONNET.     (After  the  Italian)     ....  4 

II.  SONNET.     (After  the  Italian)        ....      4 

III,  "A    BARREN    STRETCH   THAT    SLANTS   TO    THE 

SALT   SEA'S   GRAY".        .       .       .     ,.;.•         5 

IV.  LOVE  GROWN  BOLD 5 

INTERLUDE  6 


PART   II 

I.  WORDS  WITHOUT  SONG     ....         .6 

II.  THE  TRAVELER 7 

III.  WRITTEN  ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF  "  SHAKESPEARE'S 

SONNETS"      .        .        .        .        •    •  . .         .  8 

IV.  "AND  WERE  THAT  BEST!"    .       >.        V       •  8 
V.  "THERE  is  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN"  .  9 

VI.  LOVE'S  CRUELTY     ...       .       .       .  10 

INTERLUDE    .  10 


vi  CONTENTS 


PART   III 

PAGE 

I.  "  MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE  ARMED 

MEN" it 

II.  "I  WILL  BE  BRAVE  FOR  THEE"         .                .  12 

III.  "  LOVE  ME  NOT,  LOVE,  FOR  THAT  I  FIRST  LOVED 

THEE" 12 

IV.  BODY  AND  SOUL 

I.  "  O  Thou  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul !"  13 

II.  "  But,  Love,  for  me  thy  body  was  the  first"      .  13 
V.  "  THY  LOVER,  LOVE,  WOULD  HAVE  SOME  NOBLER 

WAY"            14 

VI.  LOVE'S  JEALOUSY 14 

VII.  LOVE'S  MONOTONE 15 

VIII.  "ONCE  ONLY" 15 

IX.  DENIAL 16 

X.  "ONCE  WHEN  WE  WALKED  WITHIN  A  SUMMER 

FIELD" 16 

XI.  SONG:  "  I  love  her  gentle  forehead "           .        .  17 

XII.  LISTENING  TO  Music 17 

XIII.  "A  SONG  OF  THE  MAIDEN  MORN  "         .        .  18 

XIV.  WORDS  IN  ABSENCE 18 

XV.  SONG:  "  The  birds  were  singing  "       ...  19 

XVI.  THISTLE-DOWN 19 

XVII.  "  O  SWEET  WILD  ROSES  THAT  BUD  AND  BLOW  !  "  19 

XVIII.  THE  RIVER 20 

XIX.  THE  LOVER'S  LORD  AND  MASTER       .        .        .21 

XX.  "A  NIGHT  OF  STARS  AND  DREAMS"      .        .  21 

XXI.  A  BIRTHDAY  SONG 22 

XXII.  "  WHAT  CAN  LOVE  DO  FOR  THEE,  LOVE  ?  "  22 

XXIII.  "THE  SMILE  OF  HER  I  LOVE"  23 

XXIV.  FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO 23 

XXV.  THE  UNKNOWN  WAY 24 

XXVI.  THE  SOWER 25 

XXVII.  "  WHEN  THE  LAST  DOUBT  is  DOUBTED  "       .  26 

INTERLUDE      .........  27 


CONTENTS  Vll 


PART   IV 

PAGE 

I.  SONG:  "  Love,  Love,  my  love "       .'       .        .        .27 
II.  THE  MIRROR    .       .       .  .       .       .   .     28 

III.  LIKENESS  IN  UNLIKENESS  .       .       .       .28 

IV.  SONG:  "  Not  from  the  whole  wide  world "          .         29 
V.  ALL  IN  ONE          .        .        .        ...        .29 

VI.  "I  COUNT  MY  TIME  BY  TIMES  THAT   I   MEET 

THEE" 29 

VII.  SONG  :  "  Years  have  flown  " 30 

VIII.  THE  SEASONS 30 

IX.  "SUMMER'S  RAIN  AND  WINTER'S  SNOW"  .        .  31 

X.  THE  VIOLIN 31 

XI.  "  O  SILVER  RIVER  FLOWING  TO  THE  SEA"         .  32 

XII.  "  MY  SONGS  ARE  ALL  OF  THEE  "    .        .        .  33 

XIII.  AFTER  MANY  DAYS 33 

XIV.  WEAL  AND  WOE 34 

XV.  "On,  LOVE  is  NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD"      .        .  34 

XVI.  "  LOVE  is  NOT  BOND  TO  ANY  MAN  "     .         .        35 
XVII.  "  HE  KNOWS  NOT  THE  PATH  OF  DUTY  "  .    35 

AFTER-SONG 36 


THE    CELESTIAL   PASSION 

PRELUDE     .        .        .       '.        .        .        .        .        .  39 

PART    I 

I.  ART  AND  LIFE     .....       .  .39 

II.  THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER           ...  41 

III.  MORS  TRIUMPHALIS      .        .        .  "    .        .  -43 

IV.  THE  MASTER-POETS          .....  47 


Vlll  CONTENTS 


PART   II 

PAGE 

I.  A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN  .    48 

II.  EASTER 49 

III.  A  MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI       .        .        -5° 

IV.  COST 51 

V.  THE  SONG  OF  A    HEATHEN   (SOJOURNING   IN 

GALILEE,  A.  D.  32) 51 

VI.  HOLY  LAND 52 

VII.  ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  SERVETUS     .        .        .        .52 
VIII.  "  DESPISE  NOT  THOU  " 53 

IX.    "TO  REST  FROM  WEARY  WORK "          .  .  -S3 

PART   III 

I.  RECOGNITION  ......  54 

II.  HYMN  SUNG  AT  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  THE 
OBELISK  TO  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  FEB 
RUARY  22, 1881 56 

III.  A  THOUGHT 57 

IV.  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINE 58 

V.  MORNING  AND  NIGHT 59 

VI.  "  DAY  UNTO  DAY  UTTERETH  SPEECH  "  .    60 


PART   IV 

I.  THE  SOUL 60 

II.  "WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED"    .        .        .        .        .61 

III.  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

I.  "Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have 

known?" 61 

II.  "  We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died  "     62 

IV.  FATHER  AND  CHILD 62 

V.  "  BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE  "   .        -63 

VI.  AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION         ....        64 

VII.  "  CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD  "...„.     65 

VIII.  "EACH  MOMENT  HOLY  is"  66 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

IX.  "  WHEN  TO  SLEEP  I  MUST  "        ....  66 

X.  To  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND 66 

XI.  "THE  EVENING  STAR" 67 

XII.  LIFE 

I.  "  Great  Universe  —  what  dost  thou  with  thy 

dead !  " 67 

II.  "Ah,  thou  wilt  never  answer  to  our  call  "      .  68 

XIII.  THE  FREED  SPIRIT 68 

XIV.  UNDYING  LIGHT 

I.  "  When  in  the  golden  western  summer  skies  "  69 

II.  "  O  thou  the  Lord  and  Maker  of  life  and  light !  "  69 


LYRICS 

PART   I 

ODE          „ 73 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER 75 

A  MIDSUMMER  SONG .  76 

"ON  THE  WILD  ROSE  TREE"    .        .        .        .        .        .78 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 78 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  CHIMNEY 79 

"A  WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK" 85 

A  RIDDLE  OF  LOVERS 85 

BEFORE  SUNRISE 86 

"  THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE  SUNSET  NEAR  "       .        .86 

SUNSET  FROM  THE  TRAIN 87 

"  AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT  " 88 

A  NOVEMBER  CHILD       .....                .  88 

AT  NIGHT 89 

CRADLE  SONG 89 

"  NINE  YEARS  " 90 

"BACK  FROM  THE  DARKNESS  TO  THE  LIGHT  AGAIN"  91 

PART   II 

FATE 91 

"WE  MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY"        .        .     -  .  92 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE 93 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 95 

THE  RIVER  INN- 96 

THE  HOMESTEAD 97 

AT  FOUR  SCORE 98 

JOHN  CARMAN 100 

DRINKING  SONG 103 

THE  VOYAGER 104 

A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  "  JEANNETTE  "  BROUGHT 

HOME  ON  THE  "FRISIA" 105 

ILL  TIDINGS  (The  Studio  Concert)  108 

A  NEW  WORLD 109 


PART   III 

CONGRESS:  1878 109 

REFORM no 

MEMORIAL  DAY in 

NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH 112 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT.     (New  York,  August  8,  1885).  112 
THE  DEAD  COMRADE.     (At  the  burial  of  Grant,  a  bugler 

stood  forth  and  sounded  "taps") 114 

ON  THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN          .        .  115 

THE  PRESIDENT 115 


PART   IV 

ESSIPOFF 116 

ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE 117 

MODJESKA        .        .        . 118 

FOR  AN  ALBUM.     (To  be  read  one  hundred  years  after)       .  118 

PORTO  FINO 119 

To  F.  F.  C.     (On  the  pansy,  her  class  flower)     .        .        .121 
IMPROMPTUS 

I.  Art 121 

II.  To  a  Southern  Girl 121 

III.  For  a  Fan                                                 .                 .        .  122 


CONTENTS  Xl 


PART  V 

PAGE 

Music  AND  WORDS 122 

THE  POET'S  FAME 123 

THE  POET'S  PROTEST          .        .        .  .        .        .126 

To  A  YOUNG  POET 127 

"  WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES  " 127 

YOUTH  AND  AGE .        .  128 

THE  SONNET        .        .        .        .        .        ...        .128 

A  SONNET  OF  DANTE      ...„„..       129 

"  Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare." 
THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS  (Avignon,  1879)          .        .        .  129 

KEATS 130 

AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME  (Piazza  di  Spagna)  .        .        .  130 

DESECRATION  131 

"JocosERiA" .      .  .  132 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND,  WITH  EMERSON'S  "  POEMS  "       133 

OUR  ELDER  POETS  (1878)       . 133 

LONGFELLOW'S  "  BOOK  OF  SONNETS"    ....       134 

"H.  H." 135 

THE  MODERN  RHYMER 135 


TWO   WORLDS   AND    OTHER   POEMS 

PART   I 

Two  WORLDS 

I.  The  Venus  of  Milo         ....*.        „  141 

II.  Michael  Angelo's  Slave 141 

PART   II 

THE  STAR  IN  THE  CITY         ......  141 

MOONLIGHT          .        .        .     - .       .       .  ;    .        .        .  142 

"I  CARE  NOT  IF  THE  SKIES  ARE  WHITE"  .       .i  144 


Xll  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CONTRASTS 144 

SERENADE  (For  Music) 145 

LARGESS 146 

INDOORS  AT  NIGHT 146 

THE  ABSENT  LOVER 146 

" TO-NIGHT  THE  Music  DOTH  A  BURDEN  BEAR"         .       147 

SANCTUM  SANCTORUM 147 

THE  GIFT 148 

"An,  TIME,  GO  NOT  so  SOON  "  150 

"  THE  YEARS  ARE  ANGELS  " 150 

"!N  HER  YOUNG  EYES" 150 

"YESTERDAY,  WHEN  WE  WERE  FRIENDS"     .        .        .       150 

A  NIGHT  SONG  (For  the  Guitar) 151 

LEO 151 


PART   III 

BROTHERS        .      • 153 

LOVE,  ART,  AND  TIME.     (On  a  picture  entitled  "  The  Por 
trait,"  by  Will  H.  Low) 153 

THE  DANCERS.     (On  a  picture  entitled  "  Summer,"  by  T. 

W.  Dewing) 154 

THE  TWENTY-THIRD  OF  APRIL 154 

EMMA  LAZARUS 155 

THE  TWELFTH  OF  DECEMBER 155 


PART   IV 

SHERIDAN 156 

SHERMAN 157 

PRO  PATRIA.    (In  memory  of  a  faithful  chaplain :  the  Rev. 

William  H.  Gilder) 159 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  (Reunion  at 

Gettysburg  twenty-five  years  after  the  battle)  .  .  162 

FAILURE  AND  SUCCESS  .  .  .  .  .  .  162 

J.  R.  L. :  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY 163 

NAPOLEON 163 

THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE 163 


CONTENTS  3011 


PART   V 

PAGE 

HIDE  NOT  THY  HEART 166 

"THE  POET  FROM  HIS  OWN  SORROW"      .....  167 

"WHITE,  PILLARED  NECK"           .....  167 

"GREAT  NATURE  is  AN  ARMY  GAY"         ....  168 

"LIFE  is  THE  COST" 169 

THE  PRISONER'S  THOUGHT 169 

THE  CONDEMNED .        .171 

"Sow  THOU  SORROW" 172 

TEMPTATION 172 

A  MIDSUMMER  MEDITATION 172 

"As  DOTH  THE  BIRD" 173 

VISIONS 173 

WITH  A  CROSS  OF  IMMORTELLES 175 

THE  PASSING  OF  CHRIST    .       .      ..        .        .        .      . .  175 

CREDO       .        .        .                       .   ~~   .       .       .        .  178 

NON  SINE  DOLORE      ....        .        .        .        .  179 

PART   VI 

ODE.     (Read  before  the   Society  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa, 

Harvard  University,  June  26, 1890)    ....        183 

AFTER-SONG  (To  Rosamond) 188 


THE    GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 


PART   I 

THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE.  (Read  at  the  annual  reunion 
of  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  Faneuil  Hall, 
Boston,  June  27,  1893)  ....  V  .  191 

PART    II 

'•THE  WHITE  CITY"          .       .        .       .        .        ...  199 

"  THE  VANISHING  CITY  " 200 


XIV  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TOWER  OF  FLAME.     (The  Columbian  Exposition,  July 

10,  1893) 203 

LOWELL 203 

THE  SILENCE  OF  TENNYSON 205 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GREAT  MAN        ....       205 
A  HERO  OF  PEACE.     (In  memory  of  Robert  Ross:   died 

March  6,  1894) 206 

THE  BATTLE  MONUMENT.     (Trenton,  October  19,  1893)        207 

FAME 208 

A  MONUMENT  BY  ST.  GAUDENS 208 

A  MEMORY  OF  RUBINSTEIN 208 

"How  PADEREWSKI  PLAYS" 209 

HANDEL'S  LARGO 210 

THE  STAIRWAY 211 

THE  ACTOR 211 

THE  STRICKEN  PLAYER 211 

AN  AUTUMN  DIRGE  (E.  F.  H.) 212 

ELEONORA  DUSE 214 

KELP  ROCK  (E.  C.  S.) 214 

CHARLESTON,  1886  .        .        .        .        .        .        .215 

AT  NIAGARA 215 

THE  CHILD-GARDEN 216 

THE   CHRIST-CHILD.     (A  picture  by  Frank  Vincent  Du 

Mond) 217 

A  CHILD 218 

Two  VALLEYS 219 

ON  THE  BAY  219 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE 220 

THE  CITY 220 

A  RHYME  OF  TYRINGHAM 221 

ELSIE 222 

INDIRECTION 224 

"An,  BE  NOT  FALSE  " 224 

THE  ANSWER 225 

How  DEATH  MAY  MAKE  A  MAN          ....       225 

"CAME  TO  A  MASTER  OF  SONG" 227 

BARDS 228 

MERIDIAN 229 

EVENING  IN  TYRINGHAM  VALLEY          ....       230 


CONTENTS  xv 


PART    III 

PAGE 

A  WEEK'S  CALENDAR: 

I.  NEW  YEAR  .               .       ;               .       .  .  231 

II.  A  NEW  SOUL   .        .       ,       .        .       .  .       231 

III.  "KEEP  PURE  THY  SOUL"  .        .        .        .  .231 

IV.  "  THY  MIND  is  LIKE  A  CRYSTAL  BROOK  "  .       232 
V.  "ONE  DEED  MAY  MAR  A  LIFE"       .       ,  .  232 

VI.  THE  UNKNOWN        .        .        .        .        .        .       233 

VII.  IRREVOCABLE 233 


PART   IV 
SONGS : 

"BECAUSE  THE  ROSE  MUST  FADE"  .  .  .  234 
"  FADES  THE  ROSE  "  .  • ,  .  .  .  .  .  235 

THE  WINTRY  HEART 236 

HAST  THOU  HEARD  THE  NIGHTINGALE?  .  .  .  236 
"!N  THAT  DREAD,  DREAMED-OF  HOUR"  .  .  237 
" ROSE-DARK  THE  SOLEMN  SUNSET"  .  .  .  238 

"WINDS  TO  THE  SlLENT  MORN "    ....       238 

THE  UNRETURNING 239 

Two  YEARS        . 240 


DECORATIONS  BY  H.  DE  K. 


THE    NEW    DAY 

A    POEM    IN   SONGS   AND   SONNETS 


THE   NEW   DAY 


PRELUDE 

'~TVHE  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes  a  faint  star 
J_  A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
Dark  was  the  night  and  like  an  iron  bar 
Lay  heavy  on  the  land  —  till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.     The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  height 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gray  sea  grew 
Rose-colored  like  the  sky.     A  white  gull  flew 
Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  East 
Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  increased. 
It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 
By  one  who  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth  hold, 
(Its  flame  being  hidden  by  the  garment's  fold)  — 
The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less  dim. 

More  bright  the  East  became,  the  ocean  turned 
Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  brightening  sky — 
Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 
The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun  doth  shine, 
Though  white  the  outer  branches  of  the  tree. 
From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned ; 
Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on  high, 
A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  ocean's  rim. 
1  3 


4  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

PART  I 

I —  SONNET 

(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN) 

I  KNOW  not  if  I  love  her  overmuch; 
But  this  I  know,  that  when  unto  her  face 
She  lifts  her  hand,  which  rests  there,  still,  a  space, 
Then  slowly  falls  — 't  is  I  who  feel  that  touch. 

And  when  she  sudden  shakes  her  head,  with  such 
A  look,  I  soon  her  secret  meaning  trace. 
So  when  she  runs  I  think  't  is  I  who  race. 
Like  a  poor  cripple  who  has  lost  his  crutch 

I  am  if  she  is  gone ;  and  when  she  goes, 
I  know  not  why,  for  that  is  a  strange  art  — 
As  if  myself  should  from  myself  depart. 

I  know  not  if  I  love  her  more  than  those 

Who  long  her  light  have  known;  but  for  the  rose 
She  covers  in  her  hair,  I  'd  give  my  heart. 

II  — SONNET 
(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN) 

I  LIKE  her  gentle  hand  that  sometimes  strays, 

To  find  the  place,  through  the  same  book  with  mine; 
I  like  her  feet ;  and  oh,  those  eyes  divine ! 
And  when  we  say  farewell,  perhaps  she  stays 

Love-lingering — then  hurries  on  her  ways; 

As  if  she  thought,  "  To  end  my  pain  and  thine." 
I  like  her  voice  better  than  new-made  wine ; 
I  like  the  mandolin  whereon  she  plays. 

And  I  like,  too,  the  cloak  I  saw  her  wear, 

And  the  red  scarf  that  her  white  neck  doth  cover, 
And  well  I  like  the  door  that  she  comes  through ; 


LOVE   GROWN   BOLD 

I  like  the  riband  that  doth  bind  her  hair — 
But  then,  in  truth,  I  am  that  lady's  lover, 
And  every  new  day  there  is  something  new. 


Ill  — "A   BARREN    STRETCH  THAT  SLANTS 
TO  THE  SALT  SEA'S  GRAY" 

A  BARREN  stretch  that  slants  to  the  salt  sea's  gray, — 
Rock-strewn,  and  scarred  by  fire,  and  rough  with 

stubble, — 

With  here  and  there  a  bold,  bright  touch  of  color  — 
Berries  and  yellow  leaves,  that  make  the  dolor 
More  dolorous  still.     Above,  a  sky  of  trouble. 

But  now  a  light  is  lifted  in  the  air ; 

And  though  the  sky  is  shadowed,  fold  on  fold, 
By  clouds  that  have  the  lightnings  in  their  hold, 

That  western  gleam  makes  all  the  dim  earth  fair  — 
The  sun  shines  forth  and  the  gray  sea  is  gold. 


IV— LOVE    GROWN    BOLD 

THIS  is  her  picture  painted  ere  mine  eyes 

Her  ever  holy  face  had  looked  upon. 

She  sitteth  in  a  silence  of  her  own ; 

Behind  her,  on  the  ground,  a  red  rose  lies ; 
Her  thinking  brow  is  bent,  nor  doth  arise 

Her  gaze  from  that  shut  book  whose  word  unknown 

Her  firm  hands  hide  from  her ;  there  all  alone 

She  sitteth  in  thought-trouble,  maidenwise. 
And  now  her  lover  waiting  wondereth 

Whether  the  joy  of  joys  is  drawing  near; 

Shall  his  brave  fingers  like  a  tender  breath 


FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 


That  shut  book  open  for  her,  wide  and  clear  ? 
From  him  who  her  sweet  shadow  worshipeth 
Now  will  she  take  the  rose,  and  hold  it  dear  ? 


INTERLUDE 

r  I  AHE  sun  rose  swift  and  sent  a  golden  gleam 
X     Across  the  moving  waters  to  the  land ; 
Then  for  a  little  while  it  seemed  to  stand 
In  a  clear  place,  midway  'twixt  sea  and  cloud ; 
Whence  rising  swift  again  it  passed  behind 
Full  many  a  long  and  narrow  cloud-wrought  beam 
Encased  in  gold  unearthly,  that  was  mined 
From  out  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  wind. 
These  first  revealed  its  face  and  next  did  shroud, 
While  still  the  daylight  grew,  and  joy  thereby 
Lit  all  the  windy  stretches  of  the  sky — 

Until  a  shadow  darkened  from  the  east 
And  sprang  upon  the  ocean  like  a  beast. 


PART    II 
i 

HPHERE  was  a  field  green  and  fragrant  with  grass 
L  and  flowers,  and  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  the  air 
above  it  throbbed  with  the  songs  of  birds.  It  was  yet 
morning  when  a  sudden  darkness  spread  over  the  earth, 
and  out  of  the  darkness  lightning,  and  after  the  light 
ning  fire  that  consumed  every  green  thing;  and  the 
singing  birds  fell  dying  upon  the  blackened  grass.  The 


THE  TRAVELER 


thunder  and  the  flame  passed,  but  it  was  still  dark — 
till  a  ray  of  light  touched  the  field's  edge  and  grew,  lit 
tle  by  little.  Then  one  who  listened  heard — not  the 
songs  of  birds  again,  but  the  flutter  of  broken  wings. 


II  — THE  TRAVELER 

I  MET  a  traveler  on  the  road 
Whose  back  was  bent  beneath  a  load ; 
His  face  was  worn  with  mortal  care, 
His  frame  beneath  its  burden  shook, 
Yet  onward,  restless,  he  did  fare 
With  mien  unyielding,  fixed,  a  look 
Set  forward  in  the  empty  air 
As  if  he  read  an  unseen  book. 

What  was  it  in  his  smile  that  stirred 
My  soul  to  pity !    When  I  drew 
More  near  it  seemed  as  if  I  heard 
The  broken  echo  of  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  far  and  happy  June. 
His  lips  were  parted,  but  unmoved 
By  words.     He  sang  as  dreamers  do, 
And  not  as  if  he  heard  and  loved 
The  song  he  sang :  I  hear  it  now ! 

He  stood  beside  the  level  brook, 
Nor  quenched  his  thirst,  nor  bathed  his  brow, 
Nor  from  his  back  the  burden  shook. 
He  stood,  and  yet  he  did  not  rest ; 
His  eyes  climbed  up  in  aimless  quest, 
Then  close  did  to  that  mirror  bow — 
And,  looking  down,  I  saw  in  place 
Of  his,  my  own  familiar  face. 


8  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

III— WRITTEN   ON  A  FLY-LEAF   OF 
"  SHAKESPEARE'S    SONNETS  " 

WHEN  shall  true  love  be  love  without  alloy — 
Shine  free  at  last  from  sinful  circumstance ! 
When  shall  the  canker  of  unheavenly  chance 
Eat  not  the  bud  of  that  most  heavenly  joy ! 

When  shall  true  love  meet  love  not  as  a  coy 
Retreating  light  that  leads  a  deathful  dance, 
But  as  a  firm  fixed  fire  that  doth  enhance 
The  beauty  of  all  beauty !     Will  the  employ 

Of  poets  ever  be  too  well  to  show 

That  mightiest  love  with  sharpest  pain  doth  writhe ; 
That  underneath  the  fair,  caressing  glove 

Hides  evermore  the  iron  hand ;  and  though 
Love's  flower  alone  is  good,  if  we  would  prove 
Its  perfect  bloom,  our  breath  slays  like  a  scythe ! 


IV— "AND   WERE   THAT   BEST!" 

AND  were  that  best,  Love,  dreamless,  endless  sleep ! 
Gone  all  the  fury  of  the  mortal  day — 
The  daylight  gone,  and  gone  the  starry  ray ! 
And  were  that  best,  Love,  rest  serene  and  deep ! 

Gone  labor  and  desire ;  no  arduous  steep 

To  climb,  no  songs  to  sing,  no  prayers  to  pray, 

No  help  for  those  who  perish  by  the  way, 

No  laughter  'midst  our  tears,  no  tears  to  weep ! 

And  were  that  best,  Love,  sleep  with  no  dear  dream, 
Nor  memory  of  anything  in  life — 
Stark  death  that  neither  help  nor  hurt  can  know ! 


«  THERE  IS  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN  "   9 

Oh,  rather,  far,  the  sorrow-bringing  gleam, 
The  living  day's  long  agony  and  strife ! 
Rather  strong  love  in  pain;  the  waking  woe! 


V— "THERE  IS  NOTHING  NEW 
UNDER  THE  SUN" 

THERE  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun ; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  the  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  with  the  singing  stars, 
And  the  ancient  mountains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  know  my  pain, 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife, 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover; 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and  over. 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  Heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said :    "  Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified ! 
My  praise  thou  hast  made  my  blame ; 

My  best  thou  hast  made  my  worst ; 
My  good  thou  hast  turned  to  shame ; 

My  drink  is  a  flaming  thirst." 


10  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

But  scarce  my  prayer  was  said 

Ere  from  that  place  I  turned; 
I  trembled,  I  hung  my  head, 

My  cheek,  shame-smitten,  burned ; 
For  there  where  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  thy  cross  and  crown  — 

O  Christ !  I  remembered  thee. 


VI  — LOVE'S   CRUELTY 

"  AND  this,  then,  is  thy  love,"  I  hear  thee  say, 
"  And  dost  thou  love,  and  canst  thou  torture  so  ? 
Ah,  spare  me,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  this  last  woe !  " 
But  I  am  not  my  own ;  I  must  obey 

My  master ;  I  am  slave  to  LOVE  ;  his  sway 
Is  cruel  as  the  grave.     When  he  says  Go ! 
I  go ;  when  he  says  Come  !  I  come.     I  know 
No  law  but  his.     When  he  says  Slay !  I  slay. 

As  cruel  as  the  grave  ?     Yes — crueler. 
Cruel  as  light  that  pours  its  stinging  flood 
Across  the  dark,  and  makes  an  anguished  stir 

Of  life.     Cruel  as  life  that  sends  through  blood 
Of  mortal  the  immortal  pang  and  spur. 
Cruel  as  thy  remorseless  maidenhood. 


INTERLUDE 

I 

r  I  AHE  cloud  was  thick  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight 
\.    And  over  all  a  shadowy  roof  outspread, 
Making  the  day  dim  with  another  night — 
Not  dark  like  that  which  passed,  but  oh  !  more  dread 


"MY   LOVE   FOR   THEE"  II 

For  the  clear  sunlight  that  had  gone  before 

And  prophecy  of  that  which  yet  should  be. 

Like  snow  at  night  the  wind-blown  hills  of  sand 

Shone  with  an  inward  gleam  far  down  the  land : 

Beneath  the  lowering  sky  black  was  the  sea 

Across  whose  waves  a  bird  came  flying  low, — 

Borne  swift  on  the  wind  with  wing-beat  halt  and  slow, — 

From  out  the  dull  east  toward  the  foamy  shore. 

There  was  an  awful  waiting  in  the  earth 

As  if  a  mystery  greatened  to  its  birth. 

Though  late  it  seemed,  the  day  was  just  begun 

When  lo !  at  last,  the  many-colored  bow 

Stood  in  the  heavens  over  against  the  sun. 


PART   III 

I_«MY   LOVE  FOR    THEE    DOTH    MARCH 
LIKE  ARMED   MEN" 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men, 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 

Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake ; 

Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 
It  steadfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  steadfast  rain ; 

And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 

And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 

Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 
But,  lo !  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  e'er  sung : 

Instead  of  answering  cannon,  proud  surrender ! 

Joyful  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung 
And,  for  the  conqueror,  welcome  gay  and  tender ! 

Oh,  bright  the  invader's  path  with  tribute  flowers, 

While  comrade  flags  flame  forth  on  wall  and  towers ! 


12  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


H_«I  WILL  BE  BRAVE  FOR  THEE" 

I  WILL  be  brave  for  thee,  dear  heart ;  for  thee 

My  boasted  bravery  forego.     I  will 

For  thee  be  wise,  or  lose  my  little  skill ; 

Coward  or  brave ;  wise,  foolish ;  bond  or  free. 
No  grievous  cost  in  anything  I  see 

That  brings  thee  bliss,  or  only  keeps  thee,  still, 

In  painless  peace.     So  heaven  thy  cup  but  fill, 

Be  empty  mine  unto  eternity ! 
Come  to  me,  Love,  and  let  me  touch  thy  face ! 

Lean  to  me,  Love;  breathe  on  me  thy  dear  breath  ! 

Fly  from  me,  Love,  to  some  far  hiding-place, 
If  thy  one  thought  of  me  or  hindereth 

Or  hurteth  thy  sweet  soul — then  grant  me  grace 

To  be  forgotten,  though  that  grace  be  death ! 

Ill— "LOVE  ME  NOT,  LOVE,  FOR  THAT  I 
FIRST  LOVED  THEE" 

LOVE  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee ; 
Nor  love  me,  Love,  for  thy  sweet  pity's  sake, 
In  knowledge  of  the  mortal  pain  and  ache 
Which  is  the  fruit  of  love's  blood-veined  tree. 

Let  others  for  my  love  give  love  to  me ; 
From  other  souls,  oh,  gladly  will  I  take, 
This  burning,  heart-dry  thirst  of  love  to  slake, 
What  seas  of  human  pity  there  may  be ! 

Nay,  nay,  I  care  no  more  how  love  may  grow, 
So  that  I  hear  thee  answer  to  my  call ! 
Love  me  because  my  piteous  tears  do  flow, 

Or  that  my  love  for  thee  did  first  befall. 
Love  me  or  late  or  early,  fast  or  slow — 
But  love  me,  Love,  for  love  is  all  in  all ! 


BODY  AND   SOUL  13 

IV  — BODY  AND  SOUL 


O  THOU  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul ! 

Then  shall  this  too  unworthy  body  of  mine 

Be  loved  by  right  and  accident  divine. 

Forget  the  flesh,  that  the  pure  spirit's  goal 
May  be  the  spirit ;  let  that  stand  the  whole 

Of  what  thou  lov'st  in  me.     So  will  the  shine 

Of  soul  that  strikes  on  soul  make  fair  and  fine 

This  earthy  tenement.     Thou  shalt  extol 
The  inner,  that  the  outer  lovelier  seem. 

Remember  well  that  thy  true  love  doth  fear 

No  deadlier  foe  than  the  impassioned  dream 
Should  drive  thee  to  him,  and  should  hold  thee  near — 

Near  to  the  body,  not  the  soul  of  him. 

Love  first  my  soul  and  then  both  will  be  dear. 

ii 

But,  Love,  for  me  thy  body  was  the  first. 
One  day  I  wandered  idly  through  the  town, 
Then  entered  a  cathedral's  silence  brown 
Which  sudden  thrilled  with  a  strange  heavenly  burst 

Of  light  and  music.     Lo !  that  traveler  durst 
Do  nothing  now  but  worship  and  fall  down. 
He  thought  to  rest,  as  doth  some  tired  clown 
Who  sinks  in  longed-for  sleep,  but  there  immersed 

Finds  restless  vision  on  vision  of  beauty  rare. 
Moved  by  thy  body's  outer  majesty 
I  entered  in  thy  silent,  sacred  shrine ; 

'T  was  then,  all  suddenly  and  unaware, 

Thou  didst  reveal,  O  maiden  Love !  to  me, 
This  beautiful,  singing,  holy  soul  of  thine. 


14  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

V  — "THY   LOVER,   LOVE,  WOULD   HAVE 
SOME    NOBLER   WAY" 

THY  lover,  Love,  would  have  some  nobler  way 
To  tell  his  love,  his  noble  love  to  tell, 
Than  rhymes  set  ringing  like  a  silver  bell. 
Oh,  he  would  lead  an  army,  great  and  gay, 

From  conquering  to  conquer,  day  by  day ! 
And  when  the  walls  of  a  proud  citadel 
At  summons  of  his  guns  far-echoing  fell, — 
That  thunder  to  his  Love  should  murmuring  say : 

Thee  only  do  I  love,  dear  Love  of  mine ! 

And  while  men  cried :  Behold  how  brave  a  fight ! 
She  should  read  well,  oh  well !  each  new  emprise : 

This  to  her  lips,  this  to  my  lady's  eyes !     • 

And  though  the  world  were  conquered,  line  on  line. 
Still  would  his  love  be  speechless,  day  and  night. 

VI  — LOVE'S  JEALOUSY 

OF  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 

Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee  close,  oh  close ! 
But  of  the  June-red,  summer-scented  rose, 
And  of  the  barred  and  golden  sunset  sky 

That  wins  the  soul  of  thee  through  thy  deep  eye ; 
And  of  the  breeze  by  thee  beloved,  that  goes 
O'er  thy  dear  hair  and  brow;  the  song  that  flows 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it  may  die. 

I  would  I  were  one  moment  that  sweet  show 
Of  flower ;  or  breeze  beloved  that  toucheth  all ; 
Or  sky  that  through  the  summer  eve  doth  burn. 

I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovest  so, 

At  sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eyelid  fall ; — 
But  I  would  then  to  something  human  turn. 


'ONCE   ONLY"  15 


VII  — LOVE'S  MONOTONE 

THOU  art  so  used,  Love,  to  thine  own  bird's  song,- 
Sung  to  thine  ear  in  love's  low  monotone, 
Sung  to  thee  only,  Love,  to  thee  alone 
Of  all  the  listening  world, — that  I  among 

My  doubts  find  this  the  leader  of  the  throng : 
Haply  the  music  hath  accustomed  grown 
And  no  more  music  is  to  thee ;  my  own 
Too  faithful  argument  works  its  own  wrong. 

Love,  Love,  and  must  I  learn  for  thy  sweet  sake 
The  art  of  silence  ? — Ah,  then  hide  the  light 
Of  thy  dear  countenance,  lest  the  music  wake ! 

Yet  should  thy  bird  at  last  fall  silent  quite, 
Would  not  thy  heart  an  unused  sorrow  take  ? 
Think  not  of  me  but  of  thyself  to-night. 


VIII— "ONCE   ONLY" 

ONCE  only,  Love,  may  love's  sweet  song  be  sung ; 
But  once,  Love,  at  our  feet  love's  flower  is  flung ; 
Once,  Love,  once  only,  Love,  can  we  be  young ; 
Say  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  hate ! 

Once  only,  Love,  will  burn  the  blood-red  fire ; 
But  once  awakeneth  the  wild  desire ; 
Love  pleadeth  long,  but  what  if  Love  should  tire ! 
Now  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  wait ! 

The  day  is  short,  the  evening  cometh  fast ; 
The  time  of  choosing,  Love,  will  soon  be  past ; 
The  outer  darkness  falleth,  Love,  at  last; 

Love,  let  us  love  ere  it  be  late, —  too  late ! 


16  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


IX— DENIAL 

WHEN  some  new  thought  of  love  in  me  is  born 
Then  swift  I  seek  a  token  fair  and  meet 
That  may  unblamed  thy  blessed  vision  greet ; 
Whether  it  be  a  rose,  not  bloodless  torn 

From  that  June  tree  which  hideth  many  a  thorn, 
Or  but  a  simple,  loving  message,  sweet 
With  summer's  heart  and  mine, —  these  at  thy  feet 
I  straightway  fling;  but  all  with  maiden  scorn 

Thou  spurnest.  What  to  thee  is  token  or  sign, 
Who  dost  deny  the  thing  wherefor  it  stands ! 
Then  I  seem  foolish  in  my  sight  and  thine, 

Like  one  who  eager  proffers  empty  hands. 
Thou  only  callest  these  my  gifts  unfine, 
While  men  are  praising  them  in  distant  lands. 


X— "ONCE    WHEN    WE    WALKED    WITHIN 
A    SUMMER    FIELD" 

ONCE  when  we  walked  within  a  summer  field 
I  plucked  the  flower  of  immortality, 
And  said, "  Dear  Love  of  mine,  I  give  to  thee 
This  flower  of  flowers  of  all  the  round  year's  yield!  " 

'T  was  then  thou  stood'st,  and  with  one  hand  didst 

shield 

Thy  sun-dazed  eyes,  and,  flinging  the  other  free, 
Spurned  from  thee  that  white  blossom  utterly. 
But,  Love !  the  immortal  cannot  so  be  killed. 

The  generations  shall  behold  thee  stand 

Against  that  western  glow  in  grass  dew- wet — 
Lord  of  my  life,  and  lady  of  the  land. 


LISTENING  TO   MUSIC  17 

Nor  maid  nor  lover  shall  the  world  forget, 
Nor  that  disdainful  wafture  of  thy  hand. 
Thou  scornful !  sun  and  flower  shall  find  thee  yet. 


XI  — SONG 

I  LOVE  her  gentle  forehead, 

And  I  love  her  tender  hair; 
I  love  her  cool,  white  arms, 

And  her  neck  where  it  is  bare. 

I  love  the  smell  of  her  garments ; 

I  love  the  touch  of  her  hands ; 
I  love  the  sky  above  her, 

And  the  very  ground  where  she  stands. 

I  love  her  doubting  and  anguish ; 

I  love  the  love  she  withholds; 
I  love  my  love  that  loveth  her 

And  anew  her  being  molds. 


XII  — LISTENING  TO  MUSIC 

WHEN  on  that  joyful  sea 

Where  billow  on  billow  breaks ;  where  swift  waves  follow 

Waves,  and  hollow  calls  to  hollow ; 

Where  sea-birds  swirl  and  swing, 

And  winds  through  the  rigging  shrill  and  sing ; 

Where  night  is  one  vast  starless  shade ; 

Where  thy  soul  not  afraid, 

Though  all  alone  unlonely, 

Wanders  and  wavers,  wavers  wandering; 

On  that  accursed  sea 


1 8  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

One  moment  only, 

Forget  one  moment,  Love,  thy  fierce  content ; 

Back  let  thy  soul  be  bent, — 

Think  back,  dear  Love,  O  Love,  think  back  to  me  ! 

XIII— "A  SONG  OF  THE  MAIDEN  MORN" 

A  SONG  of  the  maiden  morn, 
A  song  for  my  little  maid, 
Of  the  silver  sunlight  born ! 

But  I  am  afraid,  afraid, 

When  I  come  my  maid  may  be 

Nothing,  there,  but  a  shade. 

But  oh,  her  shadow  is  more  to  me 
Than  the  shadowless  light  of  eternity ! 

XIV— WORDS  IN  ABSENCE 

I  WOULD  that  my  words  were  as  my  fingers, 

So  that  my  Love  might  feel  them  move 
Slowly  over  her  brow,  as  lingers 

The  sunset  wind  o'er  the  world  of  its  love. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  as  the  beating 
Of  her  own  heart,  that  keeps  repeating 

My  name  through  the  livelong  day  and  the  night; 
And  when  my  Love  her  lover  misses, — 

Longs  for  and  loves  in  the  dark  and  the  light, — 
I  would  that  my  words  were  as  my  kisses. 
I  would  that  my  words  her  life  might  fill, 

Be  to  her  earth,  and  air,  and  skies. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  hushed  and  still  — 

Lost  in  the  light  of  her  eyes. 


"O   SWEET  WILD   ROSES,"   ETC.  19 

XV— SONG 

THE  birds  were  singing,  the  skies  were  gay ; 

I  looked  from  the  window  on  meadow  and  wood, 

On  green,  green  grass  that  the  sun  made  white ; 
Beyond  the  river  the  mountain  stood  — 

Blue  was  the  mountain,  the  river  was  bright ; 
I  looked  on  the  land  and  it  was  not  good, 
For  my  own  dear  Love  she  had  flown  away. 

XVI —THISTLE-DOWN 

FLY,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love ! 

Fly  through  the  morning  light, 

Flee  through  the  shadowy  night, 

Over  the  sea  and  the  land, 

Quick  as  the  lark 

Through  twilight  and  dark, 

Through  lightning  and  thunder ; 

Till  no  longer  asunder 

We  stand ; 

For  thy  touch  like  the  lips  of  her  lover 

Moves  her  being  to  mine  — 

We  are  one  in  a  swoon  divine! 

Fly,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love ! 

XVII—"  O  SWEET  WILD  ROSES  THAT 
BUD  AND  BLOW" 

O  SWEET  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow 
Along  the  way  that  my  Love  may  go ; 


20  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

O  moss-green  rocks  that  touch  her  dress, 
And  grass  that  her  dear  feet  may  press ; 

O  maple-tree  whose  brooding  shade 
For  her  a  summer  tent  has  made ; 
O  goldenrod  and  brave  sunflower 
That  flame  before  my  maiden's  bower; 

O  butterfly  on  whose  light  wings 
The  golden  summer  sunshine  clings; 
O  birds  that  flit  o'er  wheat  and  wall, 
And  from  cool  hollows  pipe  and  call ; 

O  falling  water  whose  distant  roar 
Sounds  like  the  waves  upon  the  shore; 
O  winds  that  down  the  valley  sweep, 
And  lightnings  from  the  clouds  that  leap ; 

O  skies  that  bend  above  the  hills ; 
O  gentle  rains  and  babbling  rills; 
O  moon  and  sun  that  beam  and  burn  — 
Keep  safe  my  Love  till  I  return ! 

XVIII  — THE    RIVER 

I  KNOW  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side, 
Nor  the  pale  mist  that  lies  along  the  hills 
And  with  white  joy  the  deepening  valley  fills; 
Nor  yet  the  solemn  river  moving  wide 

Into  that  valley,  where  the  hills  abide 

But  whence  those  morning  clouds  on  noiseless  wheels 
Shall  lingering  lift  and,  as  the  moonlight  steals 
From  out  the  heavens,  so  into  the  heavens  shall  glide. 

I  know  thou  art  not  this  gray  rock  that  looms 
Above  the  water,  fringed  with  scarlet  vine ; 
Nor  flame  of  burning  meadow ;  nor  the  sedge 


"A  NIGHT  OF   STARS  AND   DREAMS"          21 

That  sways  and  trembles  at  the  river's  edge. 

But  through  all  these,  dear  heart !  to  me  there  comes 
Some  melancholy,  absent  look  of  thine. 


XIX— THE   LOVER'S   LORD   AND    MASTER 

I  PRAY  thee,  dear,  think  not  alone  of  me, 

But  sometimes  think  of  my  great  master,  LOVE  ; 
His  faithful  slave  he  is  so  far  above 
That  for  his  sake  I  would  forgotten  be  —r- 

Though  well  I  know  that  hidden  thus  from  thee 
Not  far  away  my  image  then  might  rove, 
And  his  sweet,  heavenly  countenance  would  move 
Ever  thy  soul  to  gentler  charity. 

So  when  thy  lover's  self  leaps  from  his  song 
Thou  him  may  love  not  less  for  his  fair  Lord. 
But  that  thy  love  for  me  grow  never  small 

(As  bow  long  bent  twangs  not  the  arrowed  cord, 
And  he  doth  lose  his  star  who  looks  too  long), 
Sometimes,  dear  heart,  think  not  of  me  at  all. 


XX— "A    NIGHT  OF   STARS   AND   DREAMS" 

A  NIGHT  of  stars  and  dreams,  of  dreams  and  sleep; 

A  waking  into  another  empty  day — 

But  not  unlovely  all,  for  then  I  say : 

"  To-morrow ! "     Through  the  hours  this  light  doth 

creep 
Higher  in  the  heavens,  as  down  the  heavenly  steep 

Sinks  the  slow  sun.     Another  evening  gray, 

Made  glorious  by  the  morn  that  comes  that  way ; 

Another  night,  and  then  To-day  doth  leap 


22  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Upon  the  world !     Oh  quick  the  hours  do  fly, 
Of  that  new  day  which  brings  the  moment  when 
We  meet  at  last !     Swift  up  the  shaking  sky 

Rushes  the  sun  from  out  its  dismal  den ; 

And  then  the  wished  for  time  doth  yearn  more  nigh ; 
A  white  robe  glimmering  in  the  dark — and  then! 

XXI— A   BIRTHDAY   SONG 

I  THOUGHT  this  day  to  bring  to  thee 
A  flower  that  grows  on  the  red  rose  tree. 
I  searched  the  branches, — oh,  despair! 
Of  roses  every  branch  was  bare. 

I  thought  to  sing  thee  a  birthday  song 
As  wild  as  my  love,  as  deep  and  strong. 
The  song  took  wing  like  a  frightened  bird, 
And  its  music  my  maiden  never  heard. 

But,  Love !  the  flower  and  the  song  divine 
One  day  of  the  year  will  yet  be  thine ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  glad  when  the  rose  I  bring, 
And  weep  for  joy  at  the  song  I  sing. 

XXII— "WHAT  CAN  LOVE    DO    FOR   THEE, 
LOVE?" 

WHAT  can  love  do  for  thee,  Love  ? 
Can  it  make  the  green  fields  greener ; 
Bluer  the  skies,  and  bluer 
The  eyes  of  the  blue-eyed  flowers  ? 
Can  it  make  the  May-day  showers 
More  warm  and  sweet;  serener 
The  heavens  after  the  rain  ? 


FRANCESCA   AND   PAOLO  23 

The  sunset's  radiant  splendor 

More  exquisite  and  tender; 

The  Northern  Star  more  sure  ? 

Can  it  take  the  pang  from  pain  ? 

(O  Love!  remember  the  curtain 

Of  cloud  that  lifted  last  night 

And  showed  the  silver  light 

Of  a  star ! )    Can  it  make  more  certain 

The  heart  of  the  heart  of  all, 

The  good  that  works  at  the  root  — 

The  singing  soul  of  love 

That  throbs  in  flower  and  fruit, 

In  man  and  earth  and  brute, 

In  hell,  and  heaven  above  ? 

Can  its  low  voice  musical 

Make  dear  the  day  and  the  night  ? 

XXIII— "THE  SMILE  OF  HER  I  LOVE" 

THE  smile  of  her  I  love  is  like  the  dawn 
Whose  touch  makes  Memnon  sing. 
O  see  where  wide  the  golden  sunlight  flows — 
The  barren  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose ! 

The  smile  of  her  I  love  —  when  that  is  gone, 
O'er  all  the  world  night  spreads  her  shadowy  wing. 

XXIV— FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO 

WITHIN  the  second  dolorous  circle  where 
The  lost  are  whirled,  lamenting — thou  and  I 
Stood,  Love,  to-day  with  Dante.    Silently 
We  looked  upon  the  black  and  trembling  air; 


24  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

When  lo !  from  out  that  darkness  of  despair 
Two  shadows  light  upon  the  wind  drew  nigh, 
Whose  very  motion  seemed  to  breathe  a  sigh  — 
And  there  Francesca,  and  her  lover  there. 

These  when  we  saw,  the  wounds  whereat  they  bled, 
Their  love  which  was  not  with  their  bodies  slain — 
These  when  we  saw,  great  were  the  tears  we  shed ; 

As,  Love,  for  thee  and  me  love's  tears  shall  rain  — 
The  mortal  agony ;  the  nameless  dread ; 
The  longing,  and  the  passion,  and  the  pain. 


XXV— THE  UNKNOWN  WAY 

Two  travelers  met  upon  a  plain 

Where  two  straight,  narrow  pathways  crossed; 

They  met  and,  with  a  still  surprise, 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 

And  knew  that  never,  oh,  never  again ! 

Could  one  from  the  other  soul  be  lost. 

But  lo  !  these  narrow  pathways  lead 
Now  each  from  each  apart,  and  lo ! 
In  neither  pathway  can  they  go 
Together,  in  their  new,  strange  need. 

Far-off  the  purple  mountains  loom, — 
Vague  and  far-off,  and  fixed  as  fate, — 
Which  hide  from  sight  that  land  unknown 
Where,  ever,  like  a  carven  stone 
The  setting  sun  doth  stand  and  wait, 
And  men  cry  not :  "  Too  late !  too  late!  " 
And  sorrow  turns  to  a  golden  gloom. 


THE   SOWER  25 

But  oh,  the  long  journey  all  unled 
By  track  of  traveler  o'er  the  plain  — 
The  stony  desert,  bleak  and  rude, 
The  bruised  feet  and  the  tired  brain ; 
And  oh,  the  twofold  solitude, 
The  doubt,  the  danger,  and  the  dread ! 


XXVI— THE   SOWER 


A  SOWER  went  forth  to  sow; 

His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe ; 

He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet, 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was  harried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare ; 

He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  bladeless  place. 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land, 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow ; 

His  seed  was  human  blood, 

And  tears  of  women  and  men. 

And  I,  who  near  him  stood, 

Said :  When  the  crop  comes,  then 

There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 

Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 

Flame,  and  ashes,  and  woe. 


26  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

II 

It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see, 

What  was  it  that  I  heard, 

What  music  was  in  the  air  ? 

The  song  of  a  sweet- voiced  bird  ? 

Nay — but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled  through  with  praise  and  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory ; 

But  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 

A  golden  harvest  glowed, 

And  I  said :  Thou  only  art  wise, 

God  of  the  earth  and  skies ! 

And  I  praise  thee,  again  and  again, 

For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 

XXVII— "WHEN   THE    LAST    DOUBT   IS 
DOUBTED  " 

WHEN  the  last  doubt  is  doubted, 
The  last  black  shadow  flown ; 
When  the  last  foe  is  routed; 

When  the  night  is  over  and  gone  — 
Then,  Love,. oh  then !  there  will  be  rest  and  peace : 
Sweet  peace  and  rest  that  never  thou  hast  known. 

When  the  hope  that  in  thee  moveth 

Is  born  and  brought  to  sight; 
When  past  is  the  pain  that  proveth 
The  worth  of  thy  new  delight  — 
Oh  then,  Love !    then  there  will  be  joy  and  peace: 
Deep  peace  and  joy,  bright  morning  after  night. 


SONG  27 

INTERLUDE 

A  S  melting  snow  leaves  bare  the  mountain-side 
JL\.  In  spaces  that  grow  wider  and  more  wide, 
So  melted  from  the  sky  the  cloudy  veil 
That  hid  the  face  of  sunrise.     Land  and  ledge 
And  waste  of  glittering  waters  sent  a  glare 
Back  to  the  smiting  sun.     The  trembling  air 
Lay,  sea  on  sea,  along  the  horizon's  edge ; 
And  on  that  upper  ocean,  clear  as  glass, 
The  tall  ships  followed  with  deep-mirrored  sail 
Like  clouds  wind-moved  that  follow  and  that  pass ; 
And  on  that  upper  ocean,  far  and  fair, 
Floated  low  islands  all  unseen  before. 
Green  grew  the  ocean  shaken  through  with  light, 
And  blue  the  heavens  faint-flecked  with  plumy  white. 
Like  pennants  on  the  wind,  from  o'er  the  rocks 
The  birds  whirled  seaward  in  shrill-piping  flocks  — 
And  through  the  dawn,  as  through  the  shadowy  night, 
The  sound  of  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore ! 

PART  IV 

I— SONG 

E>VE,  Love,  my  love, 
The  best  things  are  the  truest! 
When  the  earth  lies  shadowy  dark  below 

Oh  then  the  heavens  are  bluest! 
Deep  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

And  sharp  the  gleam  of  the  stars, 
And  oh,  more  bright  against  the  night 
The  Aurora's  crimson  bars ! 


28  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 


II— THE  MIRROR 

THAT  I  should  love  thee  seemeth  meet  and  wise, 
So  beautiful  thou  art  that  he  were  mad 
Who  in  thy  countenance  no  pleasure  had ; 
Who  felt  not  the  still  music  of  thine  eyes 

Fall  on  his  forehead,  as  the  evening  skies 
The  music  of  the  stars  feel  and  are  glad. 
But  o'er  my  mind  one  doubt  still  cast  a  shade 
Till  in  my  thought  this  answer  did  arise : 

That  thou  shouldst  love  me  is  not  wise  or  meet, 
For  like  thee,  Love,  I  am  not  beautiful ; 
And  yet  I  think  that  haply  in  my  face 

Thou  findest  a  true  beauty; — this  poor,  dull, 
Disfigured  mirror  dimly  may  repeat 
A  little  part  of  thy  most  heavenly  grace. 


Ill  — LIKENESS   IN    UNLIKENESS 

WE  are  alike,  and  yet, — oh  strange  and  sweet!  — 
Each  in  the  other  difference  discerns ; 
So  the  torn  strands  the  maiden's  finger  turns 
Opposing  ways,  when  they  again  do  meet 

Clasp  each  in  each,  as  flame  clasps  into  heat;    , 
So  when  this  hand  on  this  cool  bosom  burns, 
Each  sense  is  lost  in  the  other.   So  two  urns 
Do,  side  by  side,  the  selfsame  lines  repeat, 

But  various  color  gives  a  lovelier  grace, 

And  each  by  contrast  still  more  fine  has  grown. 
Thus,  Love,  it  was,  I  did  forget  thy  face 

As  more  and  more  to  me  thy  soul  was  known ; 
Vague  in  my  mind  it  grew  till,  in  its  place, 
Another  came  I  knew  not  from  my  own. 


"I   COUNT   MY  TIME   BY  TIMES,"   ETC.         29 


IV— SONG 

NOT  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee, — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea! 

The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 


V— ALL   IN  ONE 

ONCE  when  a  maiden  maidenly  went  by, 
Or  when  I  found  some  wonder  in  the  grass, 
Or  when  a  purple  sunset  slow  did  pass, 
Or  a  great  star  rushed  silent  through  the  sky ; 

Once  when  I  heard  a  singing  ecstasy, 

Or  saw  the  moon's  face  in  the  river's  glass  — 
Then  I  remembered  that  for  me,  alas ! 
This  beauty  must  for  ever  and  ever  die. 

But  now  I  may  thus  sorrow  never  more ; 

From  fleeting  beauty  thou  hast  torn  the  pall ; 
Of  beauty,  Love,  thou  art  the  soul  and  core ; 

And  though  the  empty  shadow  fading  fall, — 
Though  lesser  birds  lift  up  their  wings  and  soar,- 
In  having  thee  alone,  Love,  I  have  all. 


VI— "I  COUNT  MY  TIME   BY  TIMES  THAT 
I   MEET  THEE" 

I  COUNT  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee ; 
These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  morrows,  noons, 
And  nights;  these  my  old  moons  and  my  new  moons. 
Slow  fly  the  hours,  or  fast  the  hours  do  flee, 


30  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to  me ; 

If  thou  art  far,  the  bird  tunes  are  no  tunes ; 

If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days  are  Junes  — 

Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  thou  my  dream ; 

The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  wherein  I  dwell ; 

My  journey's  end  thou  art,  and  thou  the  way; 
Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem ; 

Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art  my  hell ; 

Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment-day. 

VII— SONG 

YEARS  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 
And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst ; 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 

VIII— THE   SEASONS 

O  STRANGE  Spring  days,  when  from  the  shivering  ground 
Love  riseth,  wakening  from  his  dreamful  swound 
And,  frightened,  in  the  stream  his  face  hath  found ! 

O  Summer  days,  when  Love  hath  grown  apace, 

And  feareth  not  to  look  upon  Love's  face, 

And  lightnings  burn  where  earth  and  sky  embrace ! 

O  Autumn,  when  the  winds  are  dank  and  dread, 
How  brave  above  the  dying  and  the  dead 
The  conqueror,  Love,  uplifts  his  banner  red ! 

O  Winter,  when  the  earth  lies  white  and  chill ! 
Now  only  hath  strong  Love  his  perfect  will, 
Whom  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  death  can  bind  nor  kill. 


THE  VIOLIN  31 

IX— "SUMMER'S  RAIN   AND 
WINTER'S  SNOW" 

SUMMER'S  rain  and  winter's  snow 
With  the  seasons  come  and  go ; 

Shine  and  shower ; 
Tender  bud  and  perfect  flower; 
Silver  blossom,  golden  fruit ; 

Song  and  lute, 

With  their  inward  sound  of  pain ; 
Winter's  snow  and  summer's  rain ; 

Frost  and  fire ; 

Joy  beyond  the  heart's  desire  — 
And  our  June  comes  round  again. 


X— THE   VIOLIN 

BEFORE  the  listening  world  behold  him  stand ; 
The  warm  air  trembles  with  his  passionate  play ; 
Their  cheers  shower  round  him  like  the  ocean  spray 
Round  one  who  waits  upon  the  stormy  strand. 

Their  smiles,  sighs,  tears  all  are  at  his  command  ; 
And  now  they  hear  the  trump  of  judgment-day, 
And  now  one  silver  note  to  heaven  doth  stray 
And  fluttering  fall  upon  the  golden  sand. 

But  like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 

Their  loud  applause,  and  far  off,  faint,  and  weak 
Sounds  his  own  music  to  him,  wild  and  free  — 

Far  from  the  soul  of  music  that  doth  speak 
In  wordless  wail  and  lyric  ecstasy 
From  that  good  viol  pressed  against  his  cheek. 


32  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

XI  — "O   SILVER  RIVER   FLOWING  TO 
THE   SEA" 

0  SILVER  river  flowing  to  the  sea, 

Strong,  calm,  and  solemn  as  thy  mountains  be  ! 

Poets  have  sung  thy  ever-living  power, 

Thy  wintry  day,  and  summer  sunset  hour ; 

Have  told  how  rich  thou  art,  how  broad,  how  deep ; 

What  commerce  thine,  how  many  myriads  reap 

The  harvest  of  thy  waters.     They  have  sung 

Thy  moony  nights,  when  every  shadow  flung 

From  cliff  or  pine  is  peopled  with  dim  ghosts 

Of  settlers,  old-world  fairies,  or  the  hosts 

Of  savage  warriors  that  once  plowed  thy  waves  — 

Now  hurrying  to  the  dance  from  hidden  graves ; 

The  waving  outline  of  thy  wooded  mountains, 

Thy  populous  towns  that  stretch  from  forest  fountains 

On  either  side,  far  to  the  salty  main, 

Like  golden  coins  alternate  on  a  chain. 

Thou  pathway  of  the  empire  of  the  North, 
Thy  praises  through  the  earth  have  traveled  forth ! 

1  hear  thee  praised  as  one  who  hears  the  shout 
That  follows  when  a  hero  from  the  rout 

Of  battle  issues,  "  Lo,  how  brave  is  he, 
How  noble,  proud,  and  beautiful !  "     But  she 
Who  knows  him  best — "  How  tender !  "     So  thou  art 
The  river  of  love  to  me  ! 

—  Heart  of  my  heart, 

Dear  love  and  bride  —  is  it  not  so  indeed  ?  — 
Among  your  treasures  keep  this  new-plucked  reed. 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  33 


XII— "MY  SONGS  ARE  ALL  OF  THEE  " 

MY  songs  are  all  of  thee,  what  though  I  sing 
Of  morning  when  the  stars  are  yet  in  sight, 
Of  evening,  or  the  melancholy  night, 
Of  birds  that  o'er  the  reddening  waters  wing ; 

Of  song,  of  fire,  of  winds,  or  mists  that  cling 
To  mountain-tops,  of  winter  all  in  white, 
Of  rivers  that  toward  ocean  take  their  flight, 
Of  summer  when  the  rose  is  blossoming. 

I  think  no  thought  that  is  not  thine,  no  breath 
Of  life  I  breathe  beyond  thy  sanctity ; 
Thou  art  the  voice  that  silence  uttereth, 

And  of  all  sound  thou  art  the  sense.     From  thee 
The  music  of 'my  song,  and  what  it  saith 
Is  but  the  beat  of  thy  heart,  throbbed  through  me. 

XIII  — AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

DEAR  heart,  I  would  that  after  many  days, 
When  we  are  gone,  true  lovers  in  a  book 
Might  find  these  faithful  songs  of  ours.     "  O  look !  " 
I  hear  him  murmur  while  he  straightway  lays 

His  finger  on  the  page,  and  she  doth  raise 
Her  eyes  to  his.     Then,  like  the  winter  brook 
From  whose  young  limbs  a  sudden  summer  shook 
The  fetters,  love  flows  on  in  sunny  ways. 

I  would  that  when  we  are  no  more,  dear  heart, 
The  world  might  hold  thy  unforgotten  name 
Inviolate  in  these  eternal  rhymes. 

I  would  have  poets  say :    "  Let  not  the  art 

Wherewith  they  loved  be  lost !     To  us  the  blame 
Should  love  grow  less  in  these  our  modern  times." 


34  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

XIV— WEAL  AND  WOE 

O  HIGHEST,  strongest,  sweetest  woman-soul ! 

Thou  boldest  in  the  compass  of  thy  grace 

All  the  strange  fate  and  passion  of  thy  race ; 

Of  the  old,  primal  curse  thou  knowest  the  whole. 
Thine  eyes,  too  wise,  are  heavy  with  the  dole, 

The  doubt,  the  dread  of  all  this  human  maze ; 

Thou  in  the  virgin  morning  of  thy  days 

Hast  felt  the  bitter  waters  o'er  thee  roll. 
Yet  thou  knowest,  too,  the  terrible  delight, 

The  still  content,  and  solemn  ecstasy ; 

Whatever  sharp,  sweet  bliss  thy  kind  may  know. 
Thy  spirit  is  deep  for  pleasure  as  for  woe  — 

Deep  as  the  rich,  dark-caverned,  awful  sea 

That  the  keen- winded,  glimmering  dawn  makes  white. 


XV— "OH,  LOVE   IS   NOT  A 
SUMMER   MOOD" 


OH,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood, 

Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 

Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 
Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 
.Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 


Love  is  the  flower  of  maidenhood ; 

Love  is  the  fruit  of  mortal  pain ; 

And  she  hath  winter  in  her  blood. 


"HE   KNOWS  NOT  THE   PATH   OF   DUTY"      35 

True  love  is  steadfast  as  the  skies, 
And  once  alight  she  never  flies; 
And  love  is  strong,  and  love  is  wise. 


XVI— "LOVE  IS  NOT  BOND  TO  ANY  MAN" 


LOVE  is  not  bond  to  any  man, 
Nor  slave  of  woman,  howso  fair. 

Love  knows  no  architect  nor  plan, 
She  is  a  lawless  wanderer, 
She  hath  no  master  over  her, 
And  loveth  not  her  worshiper. 

it 

But  though  she  knoweth  law  nor  plan, — 
Though  she  is  free  as  light  and  air, — 

Love  was  a  slave  since  time  began. 

Lo,  now,  behold  a  wondrous  thing  : 
Though  from  stone  walls  she  taketh  wing 
Love  may  be  led  by  a  silken  string. 


XVII— "HE    KNOWS    NOT  THE   PATH    OF 
DUTY  " 

HE  knows  not  the  path  of  duty 
Who  says  that  the  way  is  sweet ; 

But  he  who  is  blind  to  the  beauty, 
And  finds  but  thorns  for  his  feet. 


36  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

He  alone  is  the  perfect  giver 

Who  swears  that  his  gift  is  naught ; 

And  he  is  the  sure  receiver 

Who  gains  what  he  never  sought. 

Heaven  from  the  hopeless  doubter 
The  true  believer  makes ; 

Against  the  darkness  outer 
The  light  God's  likeness  takes. 

Like  the  pale,  cold  moon  above  her 
With  its  heart  of  the  heart  of  fire, 

My  Love  is  the  one  true  lover, 
And  hers  is  the  soul  of  desire. 


AFTER-SONG 

npHROUGH  love  to  light !      Oh  wonderful  the  way 
J_     That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day ! 
From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through  love  to  light !    Through  light,  O  God,  to  thee, 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light ! 


THE    CELESTIAL   PASSION 


PRELUDE 

THE   CELESTIAL    PASSION 

0  WHITE  and  midnight  sky !  O  starry  bath ! 
Wash  me  in  thy  pure,  heavenly,  crystal  flood ; 

Cleanse  me,  ye  stars,  from  earthly  soil  and  scath ; 

Let  not  one  taint  remain  in  spirit  or  blood ! 
Receive  my  soul,  ye  burning,  awful  deeps ; 

Touch  and  baptize  me  with  the  mighty  power 

That  in  ye  thrills,  while  the  dark  planet  sleeps ; 

Make  me  all  yours  for  one  blest,  secret  hour ! 
O  glittering  host !  O  high  angelic  choir ! 

Silence  each  tone  that  with  thy  music  jars; 

Fill  me  even  as  an  urn  with  thy  white  fire 
Till  all  I  am  is  kindred  to  the  stars ! 

Make  me  thy  child,  thou  infinite,  holy  night  — 

So  shall  my  days  be  full  of  heavenly  light ! 


PART   I 

I— ART   AND    LIFE 

SAID  the  Poet  unto  the  Seer: 
How  shall  I  learn  to  tell 
What  I  know  of  Heaven  and  Hell  ? 
I  speak,  but  to  ashes  turn 
The  passions  that  in  me  burn. 
I  shout  to  the  skies,  but  I  hear 

39 


40  FIVE   BOOKS  OF  SONG 

No  answer  from  man  or  God. 
Shall  I  cast  my  lyre  to  the  sod, 
Rest,  and  give  over  the  strife, 
And  sink  in  a  voiceless  life  ? 

Said  the  Seer  to  the  Poet:     Arise 
And  give  to  the  seas  and  the  skies 
The  message  that  in  thee  burns. 
Thrice  speak,  though  the  blue  sky  turns 
Deaf  ears,  and  the  ocean  spurns 
Thy  call.     Though  men  despise 
The  word  that  from  out  thy  heart 
Flameth ;  do  thou  thy  part. 
Thrice  speak  it,  aloud,  I  say, 
Then  go,  released,  on  thy  way ; 
Live  thou  deeply  and  wise; 
Suffer  as  never  before ; 
Know  joy,  till  it  cuts  to  the  quick; 
Eat  the  apple,  Life,  to  the  core. 
Be  thou  cursed 

By  them  thou  hast  blessed,  by  the  sick 
Whom  thou  in  thy  weakness  nursed. 
With  thy  strength  the  faint  endue ; 
Be  praised  when  't  were  better  to  blame ; 
In  the  home  of  thy  spirit  be  true, 
Though  the  voice  of  the  street  cry  shame. 
Be  silent  till  all  is  done, 
Then  return,  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
And  once  more  sing. 
Oh,  then  fling 

Into  music  thy  soul !     Tell  the  seas 
Again  all  thy  thought;  Oh,  be  strong 
Thy  voice  as  the  voice  of  the  waves,  as  the 
voice  of  the  trees ! 


THE   POET  AND   HIS   MASTER  41 

Tell  the  blast, 

That  shall  shudder  as  onward  it  flies 

With  thy  word,  with  thy  song ; 

Tell  the  skies, 

And  the  world,  that  shall  listen  at  last ! 


II— THE    POET   AND    HIS   MASTER 

ONE  day  the  poet's  harp  lay  on  the  ground, 
Though  from  it  rose  a  strange  and  trembling  sound 
What  time  the  wind  swept  over  with  a  moan, 
Or,  now  and  then,  a  faint  and  tinkling  tone 
When  a  dead  leaf  fell  shuddering  from  a  tree  , 
And  shook  the  silent  wires  all  tremulously ; 
And  near  it,  dumb  with  sorrow,  and  alone 
The  poet  sat.     His  heart  was  like  a  stone. 

Then  one  drew  near  him  who  was  robed  in  white : 

It  was  the  poet's  master ;  he  had  given 

To  him  that  harp,  once  in  a  happy  night 

When  every  silver  star  that  shone  in  heaven 

Made  music  ne'er  before  was  heard  by  mortal  wight. 

And  thus  the  master  spoke : 

"  Why  is  thy  voice 

Silent,  O  poet  ?     Why  upon  the  grass 
Lies  thy  still  harp  ?     The  fitful  breezes  pass 
And  stir  the  wires,  but  the  skilled  player's  hand  . 
Moves  not  upon  them.     Poet,  wake !     Rejoice ! 
Sing  and  arouse  the  melancholy  land !  " 

"  Master,  forbear.  I  may  not  sing  to-day ; 
My  nearest  friend,  the  brother  of  my  heart, 
This  day  is  stricken  with  sorrow,  he  must  part 

3* 


42  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

From  her  who  loves  him.     Can  I  sing,  and  play 
Upon  the  joyous  harp,  and  mock  his  woe  ?  " 

"  Alas,  and  hast  thou  then  so  soon  forgot 

The  bond  that  with  thy  gift  of  song  did  go  — 

Severe  as  fate,  fixed  and  unchangeable  ? 

Even  though  his  heart  be  sounding  its  own  knell 

Dost  thou  not  know  this  is  the  poet's  lot : 

'Mid  sounds  of  war,  in  halcyon  times  of  peace, 

To  strike  the  ringing  wire  and  not  to  cease ; 

In  hours  of  general  happiness  to  swell 

The  common  joy ;  and  when  the  people  cry 

With  piteous  voice  loud  to  the  pitiless  sky, 

'T  is  his  to  frame  the  universal  prayer 

And  breathe  the  balm  of  song  upon  the  accursed  air  ?  " 

"  But  't  is  not,  O  my  master !  that  I  borrow 
The  robe  of  grief  to  deck  my  brother's  sorrow  — 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  veil  of  youth; 
I  know  what  Life  is,  have  caught  sight  of  Truth ; 
My  heart  is  dead  within  me ;  a  thick  pall 
Darkens  the  midday  sun." 

"And  dost  thou  call 

This  sorrow  ?     Call  this  knowledge  ?     O  thou  blind 
And  ignorant !     Know,  then,  thou  yet  shalt  find, 
Ere  thy  full  days  are  numbered  'neath  the  sun, 
Thou,  in  thy  shallow  youth,  hadst  but  begun 
To  guess  what  knowledge  is,  what  grief  may  be, 
And  all  the  infinite  sum  of  human  misery ; 
Shalt  find  that  for  each  drop  of  perfect  good 
Thou  payest,  at  last,  a  threefold  price  in  blood ; 
What  is  most  noble  in  thee, —  every  thought 
Highest  and  best, —  crushed,  spat  upon,  and  brought 


MORS   TRIUMPHALIS  43 

To  an  open  shame ;  thy  natural  ignorance 
Counted  thy  crime;  the  world  all  ruled  by  chance, 
Save  that  the  good  most  suffer ;  but  above 
These  ills  another,  cruel,  monstrous,  worse 
Than  all  before — thy  pure  and  passionate  love 
Shall  bring  the  old,  immitigable  curse." 

"  And  thou  who  tell'st  me  this,  dost  bid  me  sing  ?  " 

"  I  bid  thee  sing,  even  though  I  have  not  told 
All  the  deep  flood  of  anguish  shall  be  rolled 
Across  thy  breast.     Nor,  Poet,  shalt  thou  bring 
From  out  those  depths  thy  grief!     Tell  to  the  wind 
Thy  private  woes,  but  not  to  human  ear,  , 

Save  in  the  shape  of  comfort  for  thy  kind. 
But  never  hush  thy  song,  dare  not  to  cease 
While  life  is  thine.     Haply,  'mid  those  who  hear, 
Thy  music  to  one  soul  shall  murmur  peace, 
Though  for  thyself  it  hath  no  power  to  cheer. 

"  Then  shall  thy  still  unbroken  spirit  grow 
Strong  in  its  silent  suffering  and  more  wise ; 
And  as  the  drenched  and  thunder-shaken  skies 
Pass  into  golden  sunset — thou  shalt  know 
An  end  of  calm,  when  evening  breezes  blow; 
And  looking  on  thy  life  with  vision  fine 
Shalt  see  the  shadow  of  a  hand  divine." 


Ill  — MORS  TRIUMPHALIS 

i 

IN  the  hall  of  the  king  the  loud  mocking  of  many  at 

one ; 
While  lo !  with  his  hand  on  his  harp  the  old  bard  is 

undone ! 


44  FIVE  BOOKS  OF"  SONG 

One  false  note,  then  he  stammers,  he  sobs  like  a  child, 

he  is  failing, 
And  the  song  that  so  bravely  began  ends  in  discord  and 

wailing. 

II 

Can  it  be  it  is  they  who  make  merry,  't  is  they  taunting 
him? 

Shall  the  sun,  then,  be  scorned  by  the  planets,  the  tree 
by  the  limb ! 

These  bardlings,  these  mimics,  these  echoes,  these  shad 
ows  at  play, 

While  he  only  is  real ; — they  shine  but  as  motes  in  his 
day !  , 

in 

All  that  in  them  is  best  is  from  him  ;  all  they  know  he 

has  taught; 
But  one  secret  he  never  could  teach,  and  they  never 

have  caught  — 
The  soul  of  his  songs,  that  goes  sighing  like  wind  through 

the  reeds, 
And  thrills  men,  and  moves  them  to  terror,  to  prayer, 

and  to  deeds. 

IV 

Has  the  old  poet  failed,  then  —  the  singer  forgotten  his 

art? 
Why,  't  was  he  who  once  startled  the  world  with  a  cry 

from  his  heart; 
And  he  held  it  entranced  in  a  life-song,  all  music,  all 

love; 
If  now  it  grow  faint  and  grow  still,  they  have  called  him 

above. 


MORS  TRIUMPHALIS  45 


Ah,  never  again  shall  we  hear  such  fierce  music  and 

sweet — 
Surely  never  from  you,  ye  who  mock,  for  his  footstool 

unmeet ; 
E'en  his  song  left  unsung  had  more  power  than  the  note 

ye  prolong, 
And  one  sweep  of  his  harp-strings  outpassioned  the 

height  of  your  song. 


VI 

But  a  sound  like  the  voice  of  the  pine,  like  the  roar  of 

the  sea 
Arises.     He  breathes  now ;  he  sings ;  oh,  again  he  is 

free. 
He  has  flung  from  his  flesh,  from  his  spirit,  their  shackles 

accursed, 
And  he  pours  all  his  heart,  all  his  life,  in  one  passionate 

burst. 


VII 

And  now  as  he  chants  those  who  listen  turn  pale,  are 

afraid ; 
For  he  sings  of  a  God  that  made  all,  and  is  all  that  was 

made ; 
Who  is  maker  of  love,  and  of  hate,  and  of  peace,  and 

of  strife ; 
Smiles  a  world  into  life ;  frowns  a  hell,  that  yet  thrills 

with  his  life. 


46  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

VIII 

And  he  sings  of  the  time  that  shall  be  when  the  earth 

is  grown  old; 
Of  the  day  when  the  sun  shall  be  withered,  and  shrunken, 

and  cold ; 
When  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  and  the  sun, — all  their 

glory  o'erpast, — 
Like  apples  that  shrivel  and  rot,  shall  drop  into  the  Vast. 


IX 

And  onward  and  out  soars  his  song  on  its  journey  sub 
lime, 

'Mid  systems  that  vanish  or  live  in  the  lilt  of  his  rhyme; 

And  through  making  and  marring  of  races,  and  worlds, 
still  Ke  sings 

One  theme,  that  o'er  all  and  through  all  his  wild  music 
outrings — 

x 

This  one  theme :  that  whate'er  be  the  fate  that  has  hurt 

us  or  joyed ; 

Whatever  the  face  that  is  turned  to  us  out  of  the  void ; 
Be  it  cursing  or  blessing;  or  night,  or  the  light  of  the 

sun; 
Be  it  ill,  be  it  good;  be  it  life,  be  it  death,  it  is  ONE  ;  — 

XI 

One  thought,  and  one  law,  and  one  awful  and  infinite 

power ; 
In  atom,  and  world;  in  the  bursting  of  fruit  and  of 

flower; 


THE   MASTER-POETS  47 

The  laughter  of  children,  and  roar  of  the  lion  untamed ; 
And  the  stars  in  their  courses — one  name  that  can 
never  be  named. 

XII 

But  sudden  a  silence  has  fallen,  the  music  has  fled ; 

Though  he  leans  with  his  hand  on  his  harp,  now  indeed 
he  is  dead ; 

But  the  swan-song  he  sang  shall  for  ever  and  ever  abide 

In  the  heart  of  the  world,  with  the  winds  and  the  mur 
muring  tide. 


IV— THE   MASTER-POETS 

HE  the  great  World- Musician  at  whose  stroke 
The  stars  of  morning  into  music  broke ; 
He  from  whose  Being  Infinite  are  caught 
All  harmonies  of  light,  and  sound,  and  thought  — 
Once  in  each  age,  to  keep  the  world  in  tune 
He  strikes  a  note  sublime.     Nor  late,  nor  soon, 
A  godlike  soul, — music  and  passion's  birth, — 
Vibrates  across  the,  discord  of  the  earth 
And  sets  the  world  aright. 

Oh,  these  are  they 

Who  on  men's  hearts  with  mightiest  power  can  play- 
The  master-poets  of  humanity, 
From  heaven  sent  down  to  lift  men  to  the  sky. 


48  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 


PART  II 

I— A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

i 

r  I  ^ELL  me  what  is  this  innumerable  throng 
_L    Singing  in  the  heavens  a  loud  angelic  song  ? 
These  are  they  who  come  with  swift  and 

shining  feet 

From  round  about  the  throne  of  God  the  Lord 
of  Light  to  greet. 


Oh,  who  are  these  that  hasten  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
As  if  with  joyful  tidings  that  through  the  world  shall 

fly? 
The  faithful  shepherds  these,  who  greatly  were 

afeared 

When,  as  they  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 
the  heavenly  host  appeared. 

in 

Who  are  these  that  follow  across  the  hills  of  night 
A  star  that  westward  hurries  along  the  fields  of  light  ? 
Three  wise  men  from  the  east  who  myrrh  and 

treasure  bring 

To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  him  their  Lord  and 
Christ  and  King. 

IV 

What  babe  new-born  is  this  that  in  a  manger  cries  ? 
Near  on  her  lowly  bed  his  happy  mother  lies. 


EASTER  49 

Oh,  see  the  air  is  shaken  with  white  and 

heavenly  wings — 
This  is  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth,  this  is  the 

King  of  kings. 


II  — EASTER 

i 

WHEN  in  the  starry  gloom 

They  sought  the  Lord  Christ's  tomb, 

Two  angels  stood  in  sight 

All  dressed  in  burning  white 

Who  unto  the  women  said : 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ?  " 

ii 

His  life,  his  hope,  his  heart, 

With  death  they  had  no  part ; 

For  this  those  words  of  scorn 

First  heard  that  holy  morn, 

When  the  waiting  angels  said : 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ?  " 

in 

O,  ye  of  this  latter  day, 

Who  journey  the  selfsame  way  — 

Through  morning's  twilight  gloom 

Back  to  the  shadowy  tomb ; 

To  you,  as  to  them,  was  it  said : 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ?  " 


SO  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

IV 

The  Lord  is  risen  indeed, 

He  is  here  for  your  love,  for  your  need  — 

Not  in  the  grave,  nor  the  sky, 

But  here  where  men  live  and  die  ; 

And  true  the  word  that  was  said : 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ?  " 


Wherever  are  tears  and  sighs, 

Wherever  are  children's  eyes, 

Where  man  calls  man  his  brother, 

And  loves  as  himself  another, 

Christ  lives !     The  angels  said : 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  ?  " 


III— A   MADONNA   OF   FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI 

No  heavenly  maid  we  here  behold, 
Though  round  her  brow  a  ring  of  gold ; 
This  baby,  solemn-eyed  and  sweet, 
Is  human  all  from  head  to  feet. 

Together  close  her  palms  are  prest 
In  worship  of  that  godly  guest ; 
But  glad  her  heart  and  unafraid 
While  on  her  neck  his  hand  is  laid. 

Two  children,  happy,  laughing,  gay, 
Uphold  the  little  child  in  play ; 
Not  flying  angels  these,  what  though 
Four  wings  from  their  four  shoulders  grow. 


THE   SONG  OF-  A   HEATHEN  51 

Fra  Lippo,  we  have  learned  from  thee 
A  lesson  of  humanity ; 
To  every  mother's  heart  forlorn, 
In  every  house  the  Christ  is  born. 


IV— COST 

BECAUSE  Heaven's  cost  is  Hell,  and  perfect  joy 
Hurts  as  hurts  sorrow ;  and  because  we  win 
Some  boon  of  grace  with  the  dread  cost  of  sin, 
Or  suffering  born  of  sin ;  because  the  alloy 

Of  blood  but  makes  the  bliss  of  victory  brighter ; 
Because  true  worth  hath  surest  proof  herein, 
That  it  should  be  reproached,  and  called  akin 
To  evil  things — black  making  white  the  whiter; 

Because  no  cost  seems  great  near  this  —  that  He 

Should  pay  the  ransom  wherewith  we  were  priced ; 
And  none  could  name  a  darker  infamy 

Than  that  a  god  was  spit  upon, —  enticed 

By  those  he  came  to  save,  to  the  accursed  tree, — 
For  this  I  know  that  Christ  indeed  is  Christ. 


V— THE   SONG  OF  A  HEATHEN 
(SOJOURNING  IN  GALILEE,  A.  D.  32) 


IF  Jesus  Christ  is  a  man, — 

And  only  a  man, —  I  say 
That  of  all  mankind  I  cleave  to  him, 

And  to  him  will  I  cleave  alway. 


52  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

II 

If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  God, — 

And  the  only  God, —  I  swear 
I  will  follow  Him  through  heaven  and  hell, 

The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air ! 

VI  — HOLY   LAND 

THIS  is  the  earth  he  walked  on ;  not  alone 
That  Asian  country  keeps  the  sacred  stain; 
Ah,  not  alone  the  far  Judsean  plain, 
Mountain  and  river !     Lo,  the  sun  that  shone 

On  him,  shines  now  on  us ;  when  day  is  gone 
The  moon  of  Galilee  comes  forth  again 
And  lights  our  path  as  his;  an  endless  chain 
Of  years  and  sorrows  makes  the  round  world  one. 

The  air  we  breathe,  he  breathed  —  the  very  air 
That  took  the  mold  and  music  of  his  high 
And  godlike  speech.     Since  then  shall  mortal  dare 

With  base  thought  front  the  ever-sacred  sky — 
Soil  with  foul  deed  the  ground  whereon  he  laid 
In  holy  death  his  pale,  immortal  head ! 

VII  — ON   A   PORTRAIT   OF   SERVETUS 

THOU  grim  and  haggard  wanderer,  who  dost  look 
With  haunting  eyes  forth  from  the  narrow  page, 
I  know  what  fires  consumed  with  inward  rage 
Thy  broken  frame,  what  tempests  chilled  and  shook  ! 

Ah,  could  not  thy  remorseless  foeman  brook 

Time's  sure  devourment,  but  must  needs  assuage 

His  anger  in  thy  blood,  and  blot  the  age 

With  that  dark  crime  which  virtue's  semblance  took ! 


"TO   REST   FROM  WEARY  WORK"  53 

Servetus !  that  which  slew  thee  lives  to-day, 
Though  in  new  forms  it  taints  our  modern  air; 
Still  in  heaven's  name  the  deeds  of  hell  are  done ; 

Still  on  the  high-road,  'neath  the  noonday  sun, 
The  fires  of  hate  are  lit  for  them  who  dare 
Follow  their  Lord  along  the  untrodden  way. 

VIII  — "DESPISE    NOT   THOU" 

DESPISE  not  thou  thy  father's  ancient  creed, 
Of  his  pure  life  it  was  the  golden  thread 
Whereon  bright  days  were  gathered,  bead  by  bead, 
Till  death  laid  low  that  dear  and  reverend  head. 

From  olden  faith  how  many  a  glorious  deed 

Hath  lit  the  world ;  its  blood-stained  banner  led 

The  martyrs  heavenward;  yea,  it  was  the  seed 

Of  knowledge,  whence  our  modern  freedom  spread. 

Not  always  has  man's  credo  proved  a  snare  — 
But  a  deliverance,  a  sign,  a  flame 
To  purify  the  dense  and  pestilent  air, 

Writing  on  pitiless  heavens  one  pitying  name ; 
And  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  dread  eclipse 
It  shines  on  dying  eyes  and  pallid  lips. 

IX— "TO    REST   FROM   WEARY   WORK" 

To  REST  from  weary  work  one  day  of  seven ; 
One  day  to  turn  our  backs  upon  the  world, 
Its  soil  wash  from  us,  and  strive  on  to  Heaven  — 
Whereto  we  daily  climb,  but  quick  are  hurled 

Down  to  the  pit  of  human  pride  and  sin. 
Help  me,  ye  powers  celestial !  to  come  nigh ; 
Ah,  let  me  catch  one  little  glimpse  within 
The  heavenly  city,  lest  my  spirit  die. 


54  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

These  be  my  guides,  my  messengers,  my  friends : 
Books  of  wise  poets;  the  musician's  art; 
The  ocean  whose  deep  music  never  ends ; 

The  silence  of  the  forest's  shadowy  heart; 
And,  too,  the  brooding  organ's  solemn  blare, 
And  kneeling  multitudes'  low-murmuring  prayer. 


PART    III 
I  — RECOGNITION 


IN  darkness  of  the  visionary  night 
This  I  beheld :  Wide  space  and  therein  God, 
God  who  in  dual  nature  doth  abide  — 
Love,  and  the  Loved  One,  Power  and  Beauty's  self; 
Him  even  the  spirit's  eye  might  not  transfix 
But  sidelong  gazed,  fainting  before  the  light. 
And  forth  from  God  did  come, —  with  dreadful  thrill, 
And  starry  music  like  to  million  wires 
That  shiver  with  the  breathings  of  the  dawn, — 
Creation,  boundless,  bodiless,  unformed, 
And  white  with  trembling  fire  and  light  intense, 
And  outward  pulsings  like  the  boreal  flame. 
One  mighty  cloud  it  seemed,  nor  star,  nor  earth, 
Or  like  a  nameless  growth  of  the  under-seas; 
Creation  dumb,  unconscious,  yet  alive 
With  some  deep,  inward  passion  unexpressed, 
And  swift,  concentric,  never-ceasing  urge  — 
Resolving  gradual  to  one  disk  of  fire. 
And  as  I  looked,  behold  !  the  flying  rim 
Grew  separate  from  the  center ;  this  again 


RECOGNITION  55 

Divided,  and  the  whole  still  swift  revolved, 

Ring  within  ring,  and  fiery  wheel  in  wheel; 

Till,  sudden  or  slow  as  chanced,  the  outmost  edge 

Whirled  into  fragments,  each  a  separate  sun, 

With  lesser  globes  attendant  on  its  flight. 

These  while  I  gazed  turned  dark  with  smoldering  fire 

And,  slow  contracting,  grew  to  solid  orbs. 

Then  knew  I  that  this  planetary  world, 

Cradled  in  light,  and  curtained  with  the  dawn 

And  starry  eve,  was  born ;  though  in  itself 

Complete  and  perfect  all,  yet  but  a  part 

And  atom  of  the  living  universe. 


ii 

Unconscious  still  the  child  of  the  conscious  God  — 
Creation,  born  of  Beauty  and  of  Love, 
Beauty  the  womb  and  mother  of  all  worlds. 
But  soon  with  breathless  speed  the  new-made  earth 
Swept  near  me  where  I  watched  the  birth  of  things, 
Its  greatening  bulk  eclipsing,  star  by  star, 
Half  the  bright  heavens.     Then  I  beheld  crawl  forth 
Upon  the  earth's  cool  crust  most  wondrous  forms 
Wherein  were  hid,  in  transmutation  strange, 
Sparks  of  the  ancient,  never-ending  fire ; 
Shapes  moved  not  solely  by  exterior  law 
But  having  will  and  motion  of  their  own, — 
First  sluggish  and  minute,  then  by  degrees 
Monstrous,  enorm.     Then  other  forms  more  fine 
Streamed  ceaseless  on  my  sight,  until  at  last, 
Rising  and  turning  its  slow  gaze  about 
Across  the  abysmal  void,  the  mighty  child 


56  FIVE   BOOKS   OF  SONG 

Of  the  supreme,  divine  Omnipotence  — 
Creation,  born  of  God,  by  him  begot, 
Conscious  in  MAN,  no  longer  blind  and  dumb, 
Beheld  and  knew  its  father  and  its  God. 


II  — HYMN 

SUNG  AT  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  THE  OBELISK  TO  THE 
CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  FEBRUARY  22,  1 88 1 


GREAT  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven ; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Here,  by  this  ancient  Sign 
Of  thine  own  Light  divine, 
We  lift  to  thee  our  eyes 
Thou  Dweller  of  the  Skies; 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  Heaven ! 


Older  than  Nilus'  mighty  flood 

Into  the  Mid-Sea  pouring, 
Or  than  the  sea,  thou  God  hast  stood — 
Thou  God  of  our  adoring! 
Waters  and  stormy  blast 
Haste  when  thou  bid'st  them  haste ; 
Silent,  and  hid,  and  still, 
Thou  sendest  good  and  ill; 
Thy  ways  are  past  exploring. 


A  THOUGHT  57 

III 

In  myriad  forms,  by  myriad  names, 
Men  seek  to  bind  and  mold  thee ; 
But  thou  dost  melt,  like  wax  in  flames, 
The  cords  that  would  enfold  thee. 
Who  madest  life  and  light, 
Bring'st  morning  after  night, 
Who  all  things  did'st  create  — 
No  majesty,  nor  state, 
Nor  word,  nor  world  can  hold  thee ! 

IV 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Of  suns  thou  art  the  Sun, 
Eternal,  holy  One ; 
Who  us  can  help  save  thou  ? 
To  thee  alone  we  bow ! 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  heaven ! 


Ill— A  THOUGHT 

ONCE,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land 

That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the  sun, — 

A  land  of  broad,  green  meadows,  through  which  poured 

Two  rivers,  slowly  widening  to  the  sea, — 

Thus  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how  nor  whence, 

Was  bom  into  my  unexpectant  soul 

That  thought,  late  learned  by  anxious-witted  man, 

The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 


FIVE  BOOKS  OF   SONG 

IV— THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINE 

'T  is  night  upon  the  lake.     Our  bed  of  boughs 
Is  built  where,  high  above,  the  pine-tree  soughs. 
'T  is  still  —  and  yet  what  woody  noises  loom 
Against  the  background  of  the  silent  gloom ! 
One  well  might  hear  the  opening  of  a  flower 
If  day  were  hushed  as  this.     A  mimic  shower 
Just  shaken  from  a  branch,  how  large  it  sounded, 
As  'gainst  our  canvas  roof  its  three  drops  bounded  ! 
Across  the  rumpling  waves  the  hoot-owl's  bark 
Tolls  forth  the  midnight  hour  upon  the  dark. 
What  mellow  booming  from  the  hills  doth  come  ?  — 
The  mountain  quarry  strikes  its  mighty  drum. 

Long  had  we  lain  beside  our  pine-wood  fire, 
From  things  of  sport  our  talk  had  risen  higher. 
How  frank  and  intimate  the  words  of  men 
When  tented  lonely  in  some  forest  glen ! 
No  dallying  now  with  masks,  from  whence  emerges 
Scarce  one  true  feature  forth.     The  night-wind  urges 
To  straight  and  simple  speech.     So  we  had  thought 
Aloud ;  no  secrets  but  to  light  were  brought. 
The  hid  and  spiritual  hopes,  the  wild, 
Unreasoned  longings  that,  from  child  to  child, 
Mortals  still  cherish  (though  with  modern  shame)  — 
To  these,  and  things  like  these,  we  gave  a  name; 
And  as  we  talked,  the  intense  and  resinous  fire 
Lit  up  the  towering  boles,  till  nigh  and  nigher 
They  gathered  round,  a  ghostly  company, 
Like  beasts  who  seek  to  know  what  men  may  be. 

Then  to  our  hemlock  beds,  but  not  to  sleep  — 
For  listening  to  the  stealthy  steps  that  creep 


MORNING  AND  NIGHT  59 

About  the  tent,  or  falling  branch,  but  most 
A  noise  was  like  the  rustling  of  a  host, 
Or  like  the  sea  that  breaks  upon  the  shore  — 
It  was  the  pine-tree's  murmur.     More  and  more 
It  took  a  human  sound.     These  words  I  felt 
Into  the  skyey  darkness  float  and  melt : 

"  Heardst  thou  these  wanderers  reasoning  of  a  time 
When  men  more  near  the  Eternal  One  shall  climb  ? 
How  like  the  new-born  child,  who  cannot  tell 
A  mother's  arm  that  wraps  it  warm  and  well ! 
Leaves  of  His  rose ;  drops  in  His  sea  that  flow, — 
Are  they,  alas,  so  blind  they  may  not  know 
Here,  in  this  breathing  world  of  joy  and  fear, 
They  can  no  nearer  get  to  God  than  here.". 


V— MORNING  AND   NIGHT 

i 

THE  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss 
Glad  greets  its  shining  neighbor ; 

Lord !  heed  the  homage  of  our  bliss, 
The  incense  of  our  labor. 

ii 

Now  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep, 

The  golden  sun  is  setting ; 
Take,  Lord !  the  worship  of  our  sleep, 

The  praise  of  our  forgetting. 


60  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


VI— "DAY    UNTO    DAY    UTTERETH 
SPEECH  " 

THE  speech  that  day  doth  utter,  and  the  night, 
Full  oft  to  mortal  ears  it  hath  no  sound ; 
Dull  are  our  eyes  to  read  upon  the  ground 
What  's  written  there ;  and  stars  are  hid  by  light. 

So  when  the  dark  doth  fall,  awhile  our  sight 
Kens  the  unwonted  orbs  that  circle  round, 
Then  quick  in  sleep  our  human  sense  is  bound  — 
Speechless  for  us  the  starry  heavens  and  bright. 

But  when  the  day  doth  close  there  is  one  word 
That 's  writ  amid  the  sunset's  golden  embers ; 
And  one  at  morn ;  by  them  our  hearts  are  stirred : 

Splendor  of  Dawn,  and  Evening  that  remembers ; 
These  are  the  rhymes  of  God;  thus,  line  on  line, 
Our  souls  are  moved  to  thoughts  that  are  divine. 


PART    IV 

I— THE   SOUL 

r  I  AHREE  messengers  to  me  from  heaven  came 
A    And  said :  "  There  is  a  deathless  human  soul  ;- 
It  is  not  lost,  as  is  the  fiery  flame 
That  dies  into  the  undistinguished  whole. 
Ah,  no;  it  separate  is,  distinct  as  God — 
Nor  any  more  than  He  can  it  be  killed ; 
Then  fearless  give  thy  body  to  the  clod, 
For  nought  can  quench  the  light  that  once  it 
filled ! " 


LOVE  AND   DEATH  6l 

Three  messengers  —  the  first  was  human  LOVE  ; 

The  second  voice  came  crying  in  the  night 

With  strange  and  awful  music  from  above; 
None  who  have  heard  that  voice  forget  it  quite ; 

BIRTH  is  it  named;  the  third,  O,  turn  not  pale ! 

'T  was  DEATH  to  the  undying  soul  cried,  Hail ! 


II_«WHEN    LOVE    DAWNED" 

WHEN  love  dawned  on  that  world  which  is  my  mind, 

Then  did  the  outer  world  wherein  I  went 

Suffer  a  sudden,  strange  transfigurement ; 

It  was  as  if  new  sight  were  given  the  blind. 
Then  where  the  shore  to  the  wide  sea  inclined 

I  watched  with  new  eyes  the  new  sun's  ascent ; 

My  heart  was  stirred  within  me  as  I  leant 

And  listened  to  a  voice  in  every  wind. 
O  purple  sea !  O  joy  beyond  control ! 

O  land  of  love  and  youth  !     O  happy  throng ! 

Were  ye  then  real,  or  did  ye  only  seem  ? 
Dear  is  that  morning  twilight  of  the  soul, — 

The  mystery,  the  waking  voice  of  song, — 

For  now  I  know  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 


Ill  — LOVE  AND  DEATH 


Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known  — 
We  that  have  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  ? 
Though  sudden  night  should  blacken  all  the  skies, 
The  day  is  ours,  and  what  the  day  has  shown. 


62  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

What  we  have  seen  and  been,  hath  not  this  grown 
Part  of  our  very  selves  ?  We,  made  love-wise, 
What  power  shall  slay  our  living  memories, 
And  who  shall  take  from  us  what  is  our  own  ? 

So,  when  a  shade  of  the  last  parting  fell, 

This  thought  gave  peace,  as  he  deep  comfort  hath 
Who,  thirsting,  drinks  cool  waters  from  a  well. 

But  soon  I  felt  more  near  that  fatal  breath ; 
More  near  he  drew,  till  I  his  face  could  tell, 
Till  then  unseen,  unknown  —  I  looked  on  Death. 

ii 

We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died ; 

The  gate  wherein  they  entered  is  made  fast; 

No  living  mortal  hath  seen  one  who  passed 

Hither,  from  out  that  darkness  deep  and  wide. 
We  lean  on  Faith ;  and  some  less  wise  have  cried : 

"  Behold  the  butterfly,  the  seed  that  's  cast !  " 

Vain  hopes  that  fall  like  flowers  before  the  blast ! 

What  man  can  look  on  Death  unterrified  ?  — 
Who  love  can  never  die  !  They  are  a  part 

Of  all  that  lives  beneath  the  summer  sky ; 

With  the  world's  living  soul  their  souls  are  one ; 
Nor  shall  they  in  vast  nature  be  undone 

And  lost  in  the  general  life.    Each  separate  heart 

Shall  live,  and  find  its  own,  and  never  die. 

IV— FATHER  AND  CHILD 

BENEATH  the  deep  and  solemn  midnight  sky, 
At  this  last  verge  and  boundary  of  time 
I  stand,  and  listen  to  the  starry  chime 
That  sounds  to  the  inward  ear,  and  will  not  die. 


"BEYOND  THE   BRANCHES  OF  THE   PINE"     63 

Now  do  the  thoughts  that  daily  hidden  lie 
Arise,  and  live  in  a  celestial  clime, — 
Unutterable  thoughts,  most  high,  sublime, — 
Crossed  by  one  dread  that  frights  mortality. 

Thus,  as  I  muse,  I  hear  my  little  child 
Sob  in  its  sleep  within  the  cottage  near  — 
My  own  dear  child !     Gone  is  that  mortal  doubt ! 

The  Power  that  drew  our  lives  forth  from  the  wild 
Our  Father  is;  we  shall  to  him  be  dear, 
Nor  from  his  universe  be  blotted  out ! 


V— "BEYOND   THE    BRANCHES   OF   THE 
PINE" 

BEYOND  the  branches  of  the  pine 
The  golden  sun  no  more  doth  shine, 

But  still  the  solemn  afterglow 
Floods  the  deep  heavens  with  light  divine. 

The  night- wind  stirs  the  corn-field  near, 
The  gray  moon  turns  to  silver  clear, 

And  one  by  one  the  glimmering  stars 
In  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  appear. 

Now  do  the  mighty  hosts  of  light 
Across  the  darkness  take  their  flight ; 

They  rise  above  the  eastern  hill 
And  silent  journey  through  the  night. 

And  there  beneath  the  starry  zone, 
In  the  deep,  narrow  grave,  alone, 

Rests  all  that  mortal  was  of  her, 
The  purest  spirit  I  have  known. 


64  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 


VI— AN   AUTUMN    MEDITATION 

As  the  long  day  of  cloud  and  storm  and  sun 

Declines  into  the  dark  and  silent  night, 

So  passed  the  old  man's  life  from  human  gaze ; 

But  not  till  sunset,  full  of  lovely  light 

And  color  that  the  day  might  not  reveal, 

Bathed  in  soft  gloom  the  landscape. 

Thus  kind  Heaven 

Let  me,  too,  die  when  Autumn  holds  the  year, — 
Serene,  with  tender  hues,  and  bracing  airs, — 
And  near  me  those  I  love;  with  no  black  thoughts, 
Nor  dread  of  what  may  come !     Yea,  when  I  die 
Let  me  not  miss  from  nature  the  cool  rush 
Of  northern  winds ;  let  Autumn  sunset  skies 
Be  golden ;  let  the  cold,  clear  blue  of  night 
Whiten  with  stars  as  now !  then  shall  I  fade 
From  life  to  life — pass  on  the  year's  full  tide 
Into  the  swell  and  vast  of  the  outer  sea 
Beyond  this  narrow  world. 

For  Autumn  days 
To  me  not  melancholy  are,  but  full 
Of  joy  and  hope,  mysterious  and  high ; 
And  with  strange  promise  rife.     Then  it  meseems 
Not  failing  is  the  year,  but  gathering  fire 
Even  as  the  cold  increases. 

Grows  a  weed 

More  richly  here  beside  our  mellow  seas 
That  is  the  Autumn's  harbinger  and  pride. 
When  fades  the  cardinal-flower,  whose  heart-red  bloom 


"CALL   ME   NOT  DEAD"  65 

Glows  like  a  living  coal  upon  the  green 

Of  the  midsummer  meadows,  then  how  bright, 

How  deepening  bright  like  mounting  flame  doth  burn 

The  goldenrod  upon  a  thousand  hills ! 

This  is  the  Autumn's  flower,  and  to  my  soul 

A  token  fresh  of  beauty  and  of  life, 

And  life's  supreme  delight. 

When  I  am  gone, 

Something  of  me  I  would  might  subtly  pass 
Within  these  flowers  twain  of  all  the  year ; 
So  might  my  spirit  send  a  sudden  stir 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  these  hills, 
These  woods,  these  waves,  and  meadows  by  the  sea. 


VII— "CALL    ME    NOT   DEAD" 

CALL  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 
Into  the  company  of  the  everliving 
High  and  most  glorious  poets !     Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.     Say :  "  He  at  last  hath  won 

Rest  and  release,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces ; 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 

To-morrow  (who  can  say  ? )  Shakespeare  may  pass, 
And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well ; 

Or  Milton ;  or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly  hill." 


66  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 


VIII— "EACH    MOMENT   HOLY   IS" 

EACH  moment  holy  is,  for  out  from  God 

Each  moment  flashes  forth  a  human  soul. 

Holy  each  moment  is,  for  back  to  him 

Some  wandering  soul  each  moment  home  returns. 


IX— "WHEN   TO   SLEEP   I    MUST" 

WHEN  to  sleep  I  must 
Where  my  fathers  sleep ; 
When  fulfilled  the  trust, 
And  the  mourners  weep ; 
When,  though  free  from  rust, 
Sword  hath  lost  its  worth  — 
Let  me  bring  to  earth 
No  dishonored  dust. 


X— TO   A   DEPARTED    FRIEND 

DEAR  friend,  who  lovedst  well  this  pleasant,  life ! 
One  year  ago  it  is  this  very  day 
Since  thou  didst  take  thy  uncompanioned  way 
Into  the  silent  land,  from  out  the  strife 

And  joyful  tumult  of  the  world.     The  knife 
Wherewith  that  sorrow  cut  us,  still  doth  stay, 
And  we,  to  whom  thou  daily  didst  betray 
Thy  gentle  soul,  with  faith  and  worship  rife, 

Love  thee  not  less  but  more — as  time  doth  go 
And  we  too  hasten  toward  that  land  unknown 
Where  those  most  dear  are  gathering  one  by  one. 


LIFE  67 

The  power  divine  that  here  did  touch  thy  heart  — 
Hath  this  withdrawn  from  thee,  where  now  thou  art  ? 
Would  thou  indeed  couldst  tell  what  thou  dost  know ! 


XI— "THE   EVENING   STAR" 

THE  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him 
Who  fain  would  hold  it  with  imperious  stare ; 
Yet,  to  the  averted  eye,  lo !  unaware 
It  shines  serene,  no  longer  shy  and  dim. 

Oh,  slow  and  sweet,  its  chalice  to  the  brim 

Fills  the  leaf-shadowed  grape  with  rich  and  rare 
Cool  sunshine,  caught  from  the  white  circling  air ! 
Home  from  his  journey  to  the  round  world's  rim, — 

Through  lonely  lands,  through  cloudy  seas  and  vext, — 
At  last  the  Holy  Grail  met  Launfal's  sight. 
So  when  my  friend  lost  him  who  was  her  next 

Of  soul, —  life  of  her  life, — all  day  the  fight 

Raged  with  a  dumb  and  pitiless  God.     Perplexed 
She  slept.     Heaven  sent  its  comfort  in  the  night. 

XII— LIFE 


GREAT  Universe  —  what  dost  thou  with  thy  dead ! 

Now  thinking  on  the  myriads  that  have  gone 

Into  a  seeming  blank  oblivion, 

With  here  and  there  a  most  resplendent  head, — 
Eyes  of  such  trancing  sweetness,  or  so  dread, 

That  made  the  soul  to  quake  who  looked  thereon,7 

All  utterly  wiped  out,  dismissed,  and  done ; 

Lost,  speechless,  viewless,  and  forever  fled ! 


68  FIVE   BOOKS   OF  SONG 

Myriad  on  myriad,  past  the  power  to  count ; — 

Where  are  they,  thou  dumb  Nature  ?    Do  they  shine, 
Released  from  separate  life,  in  summer  airs, 

On  moony  seas,  in  dawns  ?  —  or  up  the  stairs 
Of  spiritual  being  slowly  mount 
And  by  degrees  grow  more  and  more  divine  ? 


Ah,  thou  wilt  never  answer  to  our  call, 

Thou  Voiceless  One — nought  in  thee  can  be  stirred, 
What  though  the  soul,  like  to  a  frightened  bird, 
Dash  itself  wildly  'gainst  thy  mountain- wall. 

From  Nature  comes  no  answer,  though  we  fall 
In  utmost  anguish  praying  to  be  heard, 
Or  peer  below,  or  our  brave  spirits  gird 
For  steep  and  starry  flight ;  't  is  silent  all. 

In  vain  to  question  —  save  the  heart  of  man, 
The  throbbing  human  heart,  that  still  doth  keep 
Its  truth,  love,  hope,  its  high  and  quenchless  faith. 

By  day,  by  night,  when  all  else  faints  in  sleep, 

"  Nought  is  but  Life,"  it  cries ;  "  there  is  no  death ; 
Life,  Life  doth  only  live,  since  Life  began." 

XIII  — THE    FREED    SPIRIT 

BROTHER  of  sorrow  and  mortality ! 

Not  always  shall  we  chide  the  failing  flesh 

That  lets  the  netted  soul  to  silence  fly, 

Like  a  wild  bird  that  breaks  the  treacherous  mesh ; 

Not  always  shall  men  curse  in  stormy  sky 
The  laughter  and  the  fury  of  a  Power 
That  sees  its  chance-born  children  sink  and  die  — 
Hurling  or  death  or  life  for  dole  or  dower. 


UNDYING   LIGHT  69 

Who  deep  his  spirit  searches  can  deny 
Oh  nevermore,  that  life  doth  leave  a  trace 
Of  something  not  all  heavenly ;  though  we  try 

Daily  to  turn  toward  Heaven  a  steadfast  face. 
Even  grief  assoils  us  with  its  poisonous  breath  — 
Then  free  our  spirits  utterly,  pure  Death  1 


XIV— UNDYING   LIGHT 


WHEN  in  the  golden  western  summer  skies 
A  flaming  glory  starts,  and  slowly  fades 
Through  crimson  tone  on  tone  to  deeper  shades, 
There  falls  a  silence,  while  the  daylight  dies 

Lingering  —  but  not  with  human  agonies 
That  tear  the  soul,  or  terror  that  degrades ; 
A  holy  peace  the  failing  world  pervades, 
Nor  any  fear  of  that  which  onward  lies. 

For  well,  ah  well,  the  darkened  vale  recalls 
A  thousand  times  ten  thousand  vanished  suns ; 
Ten  thousand  sunsets  from  whose  blackened  walls 

Reflamed  the  white  and  living  day  that  runs, 
In  light  which  brings  all  beauty  to  the  birth, 
Deathless  forever  round  the  ancient  earth. 

ii 

O  thou  the  Lord  and  Maker  of  life  and  light ! 
Full  heavy  are  the  burdens  that  do  weigh 
Our  spirits  earthward,  as  through  twilight  gray 
We  journey  to  the  end  and  rest  of  night ; 


70  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Though  well  we  know  to  the  deep  inward  sight 
Darkness  is  but  thy  shadow,  and  the  day 
Where  thou  art  never  dies,  but  sends  its  ray 
Through  the  wide  universe  with  restless  might. 

O  Lord  of  Light,  steep  thou  our  souls  in  thee ! 
That  when  the  daylight  trembles  into  shade, 
And  falls  the  silence  of  mortality, 

And  all  is  done,  we  shall  not  be  afraid, 

But  pass  from  light  to  light ;  from  earth's  dull  gleam 
Into  the  very  heart  and  heaven  of  our  dream. 


LYRICS 


LYRICS 
PART  I 

ODE 


I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea ; 
I  am  the  awakening  and  the  glad  surprise ; 
I  fill  the  skies 

With  laughter  and  with  light. 
Not  tears,  but  jollity 

At  birth  of  day  brim  the  strong  man-child's  eyes. 
Behold  the  white 

Wide  threefold  beams  that  from  the  hidden  sun 
Rise  swift  and  far  — 
One  where  Orion  keeps 
His  armed  watch,  and  one 
That  to  the  midmost  starry  heaven  upleaps ; 
The  third  blots  out  the  firm-fixed  Northern  Star. 
I  am  the  wind  that  shakes  the  glittering  wave, 
Hurries  the  snowy  spume  along  the  shore 
And  dies  at  last  in  some  far-murmuring  cave. 
My  voice  thou  hearest  in  the  breaker's  roar  — 
That  sound  which  never  failed  since  time  began, 
And  first  around  the  world  the  shining  tumult  ran. 


74  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

II 

I  light  the  sea  and  wake  the  sleeping  land. 
My  footsteps  on  the  hills  make  music,  and  my  hand 
Plays  like  a  harper's  on  the  wind-swept  pines. 

With  the  wind  and  the  day 
I  follow  round  the  world  —  away !  away ! 
Wide  over  lake  and  plain  my  sunlight  shines 
And  every  wave  and  every  blade  of  grass 
Doth  know  me  as  I  pass ; 

And  me  the  western  sloping  mountains  know,  and  me 
The  far-off,  golden  sea. 

0  sea,  whereon  the  passing  sun  doth  lie ! 
O  man,  who  watchest  by  that  golden  sea! 
Grieve  not,  O  grieve  not  thou,  but  lift  thine  eye 
And  see  me  glorious  in  the  sunset  sky ! 

in 

1  love  not  the  night 

Save  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
Or  when  the  moon 

Fills  the  white  air  with  silence  like  a  tune. 
Yea,  even  the  night  is  mine 
When  the  Northern  Lights  outshine, 
And  all  the  wild  heavens  throb  in  ecstasy  divine ; — 
Yea,  mine  deep  midnight,  though  the  black  sky  lowers, 
When  the  sea  burns  white  and  breaks  on  the  shore  in 
starry  showers. 

IV 

I  am  the  laughter  of  the  new-born  child 
On  whose  soft-breathing  sleep  an  angel  smiled. 
And  I  all  sweet  first  things  that  are : 
First  songs  of  birds,  not  perfect  as  at  last, — 
Broken  and  incomplete, — 


A   SONG   OF   EARLY   SUMMER  75 

But  sweet,  oh,  sweet ! 

And  I  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  a  star 

To  the  wrecked  ship  that  tells  the  storm  is  past ; 

The  first  keen  smells  and  stirrings  of  the  Spring; 

First  snowflakes,  and  first  May-flowers  after  snow ; 

The  silver  glow 

Of  the  new  moon's  ethereal  ring ; 

The  song  the  morning  stars  together  made, 

And  the  first  kiss  of  lovers  under  the  first  June  shade. 


My  sword  is  quick,  my  arm  is  strong  to  smite 
In  the  dread  joy  and  fury  of  the  fight. 
I  am  with  those  who  win,  not  those  who  fly; 
With  those  who  live  I  am,  not  those  who  die. 
Who  die  ?     Nay,  nay,  that  word 
Where  I  am  is  unheard ; 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  youth  that  cannot  change, 
Nor  cease,  nor  suffer  woe ; 
And  I  am  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  doth  range 
Through  natural  forms  and  motions,  and  each  show 
Of  outward  loveliness.     With  me  have  birth 
All  gentleness  and  joy  in  all  the  earth. 
Raphael  knew  me,  and  showed  the  world  my  face ; 
Me  Homer  knew,  and  all  the  singing  race  — 
For  I  am  the  spirit  of  light,  and  life,  and  mirth. 


A   SONG   OF   EARLY   SUMMER 

NOT  yet  the  orchard  lifted 
Its  cloudy  bloom  to  the  sky, 

Nor  through  the  twilight  drifted 
The  whippoorwilFs  low  cry; 


76  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

The  gray  rock  had  not  made 
Of  the  vine  its  glistening  kirtle ; 

Nor  shook  in  the  locust  shade 
The  purple  bells  of  the  "  myrtle." 

Not  yet  up  the  chimney-hollow 
Was  heard  in  the  darkling  night 

The  boom  and  whir  of  the  swallow 
And  the  twitter  that  follows  the  flight ; 

Before  the  foamy  whitening 
Of  the  water  below  the  mill ; 

Ere  yet  the  summer  lightning 
Shone  red  at  the  edge  of  the  hill ; 

In  the  time  of  sun  and  showers, 
Of  skies  half  black,  half  clear; 

'Twixt  melting  snows  and  flowers; 
At  the  poise  of  the  flying  year: 

When  woods  flushed  pink  and  yellow 

In  dreams  of  leafy  June ; 
And  days  were  keen  or  mellow 

Like  tones  in  a  changing  tune; 

Before  the  birds  had  broken 
Forth  in  their  song  divine, 

Oh !  then  the  word  was  spoken 
That  made  my  darling  mine. 


A  MIDSUMMER  SONG 

OH,  father  's  gone  to  market-town,  he  was  up  before  the 

day, 
And  Jamie  's  after  robins,  and  the  man  is  making  hay, 


A   MIDSUMMER   SONG  77 

And  whistling  down  the  hollow  goes  the  boy  that  minds 

the  mill, 

While  mother  from  the  kitchen-door  is  calling  with  a 
will: 

"  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ?  " 

From  all  the  misty  morning  air  there  comes  a  summer 

sound  — 

A  murmur  as  of  waters  from  skies  and  trees  and  ground. 
The  birds  they  sing  upon  the  wing,  the  pigeons  bill  and 

coo, 

And  over  hill  and  hollow  rings  again  the  loud  halloo : 
"  Polly !  —  Polly !  — The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ?  " 

Above  the  trees  the  honey-bees  swarm  by  with  buzz  and 

boom, 

And  in  the  field  and  garden  a  thousand  blossoms  bloom. 
Within  the  farmer's  meadow  a  brown-eyed  daisy  blows, 
And  down  at  the  edge  of  the  hollow  a  red  and  thorny 
rose. 

But  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ? 

How  strange  at  such  a  time  of  day  the  mill  should  stop 

its  clatter ! 
The  farmer's  wife  is  listening  now  and  wonders  what  's 

the  matter. 

Oh,  wild  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  wood  and  on  the  hill, 
While  whistling  up  the  hollow  goes  the  boy  that  minds 
the  mill. 

But  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ? 


78  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


"ON  THE  WILD  ROSE  TREE" 

ON  the  wild  rose  tree 
Many  buds  there  be, 
Yet  each  sunny  hour 
Hath  but  one  perfect  flower. 

Thou  who  wouldst  be  wise 
Open  wide  thine  eyes ; 
In  each  sunny  hour 
Pluck  the  one  perfect  flower! 


A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 

WHEN  late  in  summer  the  streams  run  yellow, 
Burst  the  bridges  and  spread  into  bays ; 

When  berries  are  black  and  peaches  are  mellow, 
And  hills  are  hidden  by  rainy  haze ; 

When  the  goldenrod  is  golden  still, 

But  the  heart  of  the  sunflower  is  darker  and  sadder ; 
When  the  corn  is  in  stacks  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  slides  o'er  the  path  the  striped  adder. 

When  butterflies  flutter  from  clover  to  thicket, 
Or  wave  their  wings  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

When  the  breeze  conies  shrill  with  the  call  of  the  cricket, 
Grasshoppers'  rasp,  and  rustle  of  sheaf. 

When  high  in  the  field  the  fern-leaves  wrinkle, 

And  brown  is  the  grass  where  the  mowers  have  mown ; 

When  low  in  the  meadow  the  cow-bells  tinkle, 
And  small  brooks  crinkle  o'er  stock  and  stone. 


THE   BUILDING  OF   THE   CHIMNEY  79 

When  heavy  and  hollow  the  robin's  whistle 
And  shadows  are  deep  in  the  heat  of  noon ; 

When  the  air  is  white  with  the  down  o'  the  thistle, 
And  the  sky  is  red  with  the  harvest  moon ; 

Oh  then  be  chary,  young  Robert  and  Mary, 
No  time  let  slip,  not  a  moment  wait ! 

If  the  fiddle  would  play  it  must  stop  its  tuning, 
And  they  who  would  wed  must  be  done  with  their 

mooning ; 

Let  the  churn  rattle,  see  well  to  the  cattle, 
And  pile  the  wood  by  the  barn-yard  gate ! 


THE   BUILDING  OF  THE   CHIMNEY 


MY  chimney  is  builded 
On  a  hill'  by  the  sea, 
At  the  edge  of  a  wood 
That  the  sunset  has  gilded 
Since  time  was  begun 
And  the  earth  first  was  done : 
For  mine  and  for  me 
And  for  you,  John  Burroughs, 
My  friend  old  and  good, 
At  the  edge  of  a  wood 
On  a  hill  by  the  sea 
My  chimney  is  builded. 

ii 

My  chimney  gives  forth 
All  its  heat  to  the  north, 


8o  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

While  its  right  arm  it  reaches 
Toward  the  meadows  and  beaches, 
And  its  left  it  extends 
To  its  pine-tree  friends. 
All  its  heat  to  the  north 
My  chimney  gives  forth. 

in 

My  chimney  is  builded 

Of  red  and  gray  granite : 

Of  great  split  boulders 

Are  its  thighs  and  its  shoulders ; 

Its  mouth — try  to  span  it. 

'T  is  a  nine-foot  block  — 
The  shelf  that  hangs  over 
The  stout  hearth-rock. 
Then  the  lines  they  upswell 
Like  a  huge  church-bell, 
Or  a  bellying  sail 
In  a  stiff  south  gale 
When  the  ship  rolls  well, 
With  a  blue  sky  above  her. 

IV 

My  chimney  —  come  view  it, 
And  I  '11  tell  you,  John  Burroughs, 
What  is  built  all  through  it : 
First  the  derrick's  shrill  creak, 
That  perturbed  the  still  air 
With  a  cry  of  despair. 
The  lone  traveler  who  passed 
At  the  fall  of  the  night 


THE   BUILDING  OF  THE   CHIMNEY  81 

If  he  saw  not  its  mast 
Stood  still  with  affright         ', 
At  a  sudden  strange  sound  — 
Hark !  a  woman's  wild  shriek  ? 
Or  the  baying  of  a  hound  ? 

Then  the  stone-hammer's  clink 
And  the  drill's  sharp  tinkle, 
And  bird-songs  that  sprinkle 
Their  notes  through  the  wood 
(With  pine  odors  scented), 
On  their  swift  way  to  drink 
At  the  spring  cold  and  good 
That  bubbles  'neath  the  stone 
Where  the  red  chieftain  tented 
In  the  days  that  are  gone. 

Yes,  'twixt  granite  and  mortar 
Many  songs,  long  or  shorter, 
Are  imprisoned  in  the  wall ; 
And  when  red  leaves  shall  fall, — 
Coming  home,  all  in  herds, 
From  the  air  to  the  earth, — 
When  I  have  my  heart's  desire, 
And  we  sit  by  the  hearth 
In  the  glow  of  the  fire, 
You  and  I,  John  of  Birds, 
We  shall  hear  as  they  call 
From  the  gray  granite  wall ; 
You  shall  name  one  and  all. 

There  's  the  crow's  caw-cawing 
From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
And  the  cat-bird's  sawing, 


82  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

The  hissing  of  the  adder 
That  climbed  this  rocky  ladder, 
And  the  song  of  Bob  White ; 
The  robin's  loud  clatter, 
The  chipmunk's  chatter, 
And  the  mellow- voiced  bell 
That  the  cuckoo  strikes  well; 
Yes,  betwixt  the  stones  and  in 
There  is  built  a  merry  din. 

But  not  all  bright  and  gay 
Are  the  songs  we  shall  hear ; 
For  as  day  turns  to  gray 
Comes  a  voice  low  and  clear  — 
Whippoorwill  sounds  his  wail 
Over  hill,  over  dale, 
Till  the  soul  fills  with  fright. 
'T  is  the  bird  that  was  heard 
On  the  fields  drenched  with  blood 
By  the  dark  southern  flood 
When  they  died  in  the  night. 


But  you  cannot  split  granite 

Howsoever  you  may  plan  it, 

Without  bringing  blood ; 

(There  's  a  drop  of  mine  there 

On  that  block  four-square). 

Certain  oaths,  I  'm  aware, 

Sudden,  hot,  and  not  good 

(May  Heaven  cleanse  the  guilt ! ) 

In  these  stone  walls  are  built ; — 

With  the  wind  through  the  pine- wood  blowing, 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  CHIMNEY  83 

The  creak  of  tree  on  tree, 
Child-laughter,  and  the  lowing 
Of  the  homeward-driven  cattle, 
The  sound  of  wild  birds  singing, 
Of  steel  on  granite  ringing, 
The  memory  of  battle, 
And  tales  of  the  roaring  sea. 


For  my  chimney  was  builded 
By  a  Plymouth  County  sailor, 
An  old  North  Sea  whaler. 
In  the  warm  noon  spell 
'T  was  good  to  hear  him  tell 
Of  the  great  September  blow 
A  dozen  years  ago  :  — 
How  at  dawn  of  the  day 
The  wind  began  to  play, 
Till  it  cut  the  waves  flat 
Like  the  brim  of  your  hat. 
There  was  no  sea  about, 
But  it  blew  straight  out 
Till  the  ship  lurched  over ; 
But 't  was  quick  to  recover, 
When,  all  of  a  stroke, 
The  hurricane  it  broke. 
Great  heavens !  how  it  roared, 
And  how  the  rain  poured ; 
The  thirty-fathom  chain 
Dragged  out  all  in  vain. 
"  What  next  ?  "  the  captain  cried 
To  the  mate  by  his  side ; 
Then  Tip  Ryder  he  replied : 


FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

"  Fetch  the  ax  —  no  delay — 
Cut  the  mainmast  away ; 
If  you  want  to  save  the  ship 
Let  the  mainmast  rip !  " 
But  another  said,  "  Wait !  " 
And  they  did — till  too  late. 
On  her  beam-ends  she  blew, 
In  the  sea  half  the  crew — 
Struggling  back  through  the  wrack, 
There  to  cling  day  and  night. 
Not  a  sail  heaves  in  sight; 
And,  the  worst,  one  in  thirst 
(Knows  no  better,  the  poor  lad !) 
Drinks  salt  water  and  goes  mad. 

Eighty  hours  blown  and  tossed, 
Five  good  sailors  drowned  and  lost, 
And  the  rest  brought  to  shore ; 
— Some  to  sail  as  before; 
"  Not  Tip  Ryder,  if  he  starves 
Building  chimneys,  building  wharves." 

VII 

Now  this  was  the  manner 
Of  the  building  of  the  chimney. 
('T  is  a  good  old-timer, 
As  you,  friend  John,  will  own.) 
Old  man  Vail  cut  the  stone ; 
William  Ryder  was  the  builder; 
Stanford  White  was  the  planner; 
And  the  owner  and  rhymer 
Is  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


A   RIDDLE   OF   LOVERS  85 


"A   WORD   SAID   IN   THE   DARK" 

A  WORD  said  in  the  dark 
And  hands  pressed,  for  a  token ; 
"  Now,  little  maiden,  mark 
The  word  that  you  have  spoken ; 
Be  not  your  promise  broken ! " 

His  lips  upon  her  cheek 
Felt  tears  among  their  kisses ; 
"  O  pardon  I  bespeak 
If  for  my  doubting  this  is ! 
Now  all  my  doubting  ceases." 


A   RIDDLE    OF   LOVERS 

OF  my  fair  lady's  lovers  there  were  two 

Who  loved  her  more  than  all ;  nor  she,  nor  they 
Guessed  which  of  these  loved  better,  for  one  way 
This  had  of  loving,  that  another  knew. 

One  round  her  neck  brave  arms  of  empire  threw 
And  covered  her  with  kisses  where  she  lay; 
The  other  sat  apart,  nor  did  betray 
Sweet  sorrow  at  that  sight;  but  rather  drew 

His  pleasure  of  his  lady  through  the  soul 
And  sense  of  this  one.     So  there  truly  ran 
Two  separate  loves  through  one  embrace ;  the  whole 

This  lady  had  of  both,  when  one  began 

To  clasp  her  close,  and  win  her  dear  lips'  goal. 
Now  read  my  lovers'  riddle  if  you  can. 


86  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 


BEFORE   SUNRISE 

THE  winds  of  morning  move  and  sing ; 
The  western  stars  are  lingering ; 
In  the  pale  east  one  planet  still 
Shines  large  above  King  Philip's  hill ;  — 

And  near,  in  gold  against  the  blue, 
The  old  moon,  in  its  arms  the  new. 
Lo,  the  deep  waters  of  the  bay 
Stir  with  the  breath  of  hurrying  day. 

Wake,  loved  one,  wake  and  look  with  me 

Across  the  narrow,  dawn-lit  sea! 

Such  beauty  is  not  wholly  mine 

Till  thou,  dear  heart,  hast  made  it  thine. 

THE   WOODS  THAT   BRING   THE   SUNSET 
NEAR  " 

THE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing ; 
The  homeward-wandering  cows  are  lowing ; 
Dark  grow  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear  — 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines, — 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear, — 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest ; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 


SUNSET   FROM   THE  TRAIN  87 

SUNSET   FROM   THE   TRAIN 


BUT  then  the  sunset  smiled, 

Smiled  once  and  turned  toward  dark, 

Above  the  distant,  wavering  line  of  trees  that  filed 

Along  the  horizon's  edge; 

Like  hooded  monks  that  hark 

Through  evening  air 

The  call  to  prayer ;  — 

Smiled  once,  and  faded  slow,  slow,  slow  away ; 

When,  like  a  changing  dream,  the  long  cloud-wedge, 

Brown-gray, 

Grew  saffron  underneath  and,  ere  I  knew, 

The  interspace,  green-blue  — 

The  whole,  illimitable,  western,  skyey  shore, 

The  tender,  human,  silent  sunset  smiled  once  more. 


Thee,  absent  loved  one,  did  I  think  on  now, 
Wondering  if  thy  deep  brow 
In  dreams  of  me  were  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Where,  by  our  far  sea-home,  the  sunlight  dies ; 
If  thou  didst  stand  alone, 
Watching  the  day  pass  slowly,  slow,  as  here, 
But  closer  and  more  dear, 
Beyond  the  meadow  and  the  long,  familiar  line 
Of  blackening  pine; 

When  lo  !  that  second  smile;  —  dear  heart,  it  was  thine 
own. 


88  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


"AFTER   SORROW'S   NIGHT" 

AFTER  sorrow's  night 
Dawned  the  morning  bright. 
In  dewy  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 

Evening  shadows  fell 

In  our  happy  dell. 

From  glimmering  woods  I  heard 

A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 

Oh,  the  summer  night 
Starry  was  and  bright. 
In  the  dark  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 

A   NOVEMBER   CHILD 

NOVEMBER  winds,  blow  mild 

On  this  new-born  child ! 

Spirit  of  the  autumn  wood, 

Make  her  gentle,  make  her  good ! 

Still  attend  her, 

And  befriend  her, 

Fill  her  days  with  warmth  and  color ; 

Keep  her  safe  from  winter's  dolor. 


CRADLE   SONG  89 

On  thy  bosom 

Hide  this  blossom 

Safe  from  summer's  rain  and  thunder ! 

When  those  eyes  of  light  and  wonder 

Tire  at  last  of  earthly  places  — 

Full  of  years  and  full  of  graces, 

Then,  O  then 

Take  her  back  to  heaven  again ! 

AT   NIGHT 

THE  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below 
Save  where  the  midnight  city's  pallid  glow 

Lies  like  a  lily  white 

On  the  black  pool  of  night. 

O  rushing  steamer,  hurry  on  thy  way 
Across  the  swirling  Kills  and  gusty  bay, 

To  where  the  eddying  tide 

Strikes  hard  the  city's  side  ! 

For  there,  between  the  river  and  the  sea, 
Beneath  that  glow, —  the  lily's  heart  to  me, — 

A  sleeping  mother  mild, 

And  by  her  breast  a  child ! 

CRADLE   SONG 

IN  the  embers  shining  bright 
A  garden  grows  for  thy  delight, 
With  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white. 

But,  O  my  child,  beware,  beware! 
Touch  not  the  blossoms  blowing  there, 
For  every  rose  a  thorn  doth  bear. 


90  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

"NINE   YEARS" 

NINE  years  to  heaven  had  flown, 

And  June  came,  with  June's  token  — 

The  wild  rose  that  had  known 
A  maiden's  silence  broken. 

'T  was  thus  the  lover  spoke, 

And  thus  she  leaned  and  listened: 

(Below,  the  billows  broke, 
The  blue  sea  shook  and  glistened,) 

"  We  have  been  happy,  Love, 

Through  bright  and  stormy  weather, 

Happy  all  hope  above, 

For  we  have  been  together. 

"  To  meet,  to  love,  to  wed, — 
Joy  without  stint  or  measure, — 

This  was  our  lot,"  he  said, 

"  To  find  untouched  our  treasure ; 

"But  had  some  blindfold  fate 
Bound  each  unto  another  — 

To  turn  from  Heaven's  gate, 

Each  heart-throb  hide  and  smother  ! 

"  O  dear  and  faithful  heart 
If  thus  had  we  been  fated ; 

To  meet,  to  know,  to  part  — 
Too  early,  falsely,  mated ! 

"  Were  this  our  bitter  plight, 

Ah,  could  we  have  dissembled  ?  " 

Her  cheek  turned  pale  with  fright ; 
She  hid  her  face,  and  trembled. 


FATE  91 

"BACK   FROM   THE  DARKNESS  TO   THE 
LIGHT  AGAIN" 

"  BACK  from  the  darkness  to  the  light  again !  " — 
Not  from  the  darkness,  Love,  for  hadst  thou  lain 
Within  the  shadowy  portal  of  the  tomb, 
Thy  light  had  warmed  the  darkness  into  bloom. 

PART  II 
FATE 

I  FLUNG  a  stone  into  a  grassy  field ;  — 
How  many  tiny  creatures  there  may  yield 
(I  thought)  their  petty  lives  through  that  rude  shock ! 
To  me  a  pebble,  't  is  to  them  a  rock  — 
Gigantic,  cruel,  fraught  with  sudden  death. 
Perhaps  it  crushed  an  ant,  perhaps  its  breath 
Alone  tore  down  a  white  and  glittering  palace, 
And  the  small  spider  damns  the  giant's  malice 
Who  wrought  the  wreck — blasted  his  pretty  art ! 

Who  knows  what  day  some  saunterer,  light  of  heart, 
An  idle  wanderer  through  the  fields  of  space, 
Large-limbed,  big-brained,  to  whom  our  puny  race 
Seems  small  as  insects, — one  whose  footstep  jars 
On  some  vast  world-orb  islanded  by  stars, — 
May  fling  a  stone  and  crush  our  earth  to  bits, 
And  all  that  men  have  builded  by  their  wits  ? 

"  Ah,  what  a  loss  !  "  you  say ;  "  our  bodies  go, 
But  not  our  temples,  statues,  and  the  glow 
Of  glorious  canvases ;  and  not  the  pages 
Our  poets  have  illumed  through  myriad  ages. 


92  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

What  boots  the  insect's  loss  ?     Another  day 
Will  see  the  selfsame  ant-hill  and  the  play 
Of  light  on  dainty  web  the  same.     But  blot 
All  human  art  from  this  terrestrial  plot, 
Something  indeed  would  pass  that  nevermore 
Would  light  the  universe  as  once  before !  " 

The  spider's  work  is  not  original, — 
You  hold, — but  what  of  ours  ?     I  fear  that  all 
We  do  is  just  the  same  thing  over  and  over. 
Take  Life :  you  have  the  woman  and  her  lover ; 
'T  is  old  as  Eden ;  nought  is  new  in  that ! 
Take  Building,  and  you  reach  ere  long  the  flat 
Nile  desert  sands,  by  way  of  France,  Rome,  Greece. 
And  there  is  poetry — our  bards  increase 
In  numbers,  not  in  sweetness,  not  in  force, 
Since  he,  sublimest  poet  of  this  globe, 
Forgotten  now,  poured  forth  the  chant  of  Job  — 
Where  Man  with  the  Eternal  holds  discourse. 
No,  no  !     The  forms  may  change,  but  even  they 
Come  round  again.     Could  we  but  truly  scan  it, 
We  'd  find  in  the  heavens  some  little,  busy  planet, 
Whence  all  we  are  was  borrowed.     If  to-day 
The  imagined  giant  flung  his  ponderous  stone, 
And  we  and  all  our  far-stretched  schemes  were  done, 
His  were  a  scant  remorse  and  short-lived  trouble, — 
Like  mine  for  those  small  creatures  in  the  stubble. 


"WE  MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY" 


WE  met  upon  the  crowded  way; 

We  spoke  and  passed.     How  bright  the  day 


THE   WHITE  AND  THE   RED   ROSE  93 

Turned  from  that  moment,  for  a  light 

Did  shine  from  her  to  make  it  bright ! 

And  then  I  asked :  Can  such  as  she 

From  life  be  blotted  utterly  ? 

The  thoughts  from  those  clear  eyes  that  dawn — 

Down  to  the  ground  can  they  be  drawn  ? 

ii 

Among  the  mighty  who  can  find 

One  that  hath  a  perfect  mind  ? 

Angry,  jealous,  cursed  by  feuds, 

They  own  the  sway  of  fatal  moods ; 

But  thou  dost  perfect  seem  to  me 

In  thy  divine  simplicity. 

Though  from  the  heavens  the  stars  be  wrenched, 

Thy  light,  dear  maid,  shall  not  be  quenched. 

Gentle,  and  true,  and  pure,  and  free  — 

The  gods  will  not  abandon  thee ! 


THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE 


IN  Heaven's  happy  bowers 
There  blossom  two  flowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow 
And  one  as  white  as  snow; 
While  lo  !  before  them  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
A  spirit  who  must  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 


94  FIVE   BOOKS   OF  SONG 

II 

Oh,  tell  me  of  these  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow, 
And  one  as  white  as  snow ! 
And  tell  me  who  is  this 
In  Heaven's  holy  bliss 
Who  trembles  and  who  cries 
Like  a  mortal  soul  that  dies  ! 


in 

These  blossoms  two 
Wet  with  heavenly  dew — 
The  Gentle  Heart  is  one, 
And  one  is  Beauty's  own ; 
And  the  spirit  here  that  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
Before  to-morrow's  morn 
Will  be  a  child  new-born, 
Will  be  a  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrows  laden ; 
But  of  these  shining  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
To-day  she  still  may  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 

IV 

Will  she  pluck  the  crimson  flower 
And  win  Beauty's  dower  ? 
Will  she  choose  the  better  part 
And  gain  the  Gentle  Heart  ? 


A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT  95 

Awhile  she  weeping  waits 
Within  those  pearly  gates ; 
Alas !  the  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrow  laden; 
Her  tears  afresh  they  start  — 
She  has  chosen  the  Gentle  Heart. 


And  now  the  spirit  goes, 

In  her  breast  the  snow-white  rose. 

When  hark !  a  voice  that  calls 

Within  the  garden  walls : 

"  Thou  didst  choose  the  better  part, 

Thou  hast  won  the  Gentle  Heart  — 

Lo,  now  to  thee  is  given 

The  red  rose  of  Heaven." 

A   WOMAN'S   THOUGHT 

I  AM  a  woman — therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

Then  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet ; 

Still  as  a  stone — 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot — 

Crush  and  defy  it ! 

Should  I  grow  bold, 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him  — 


96  FIVE  BOOKS   OF   SONG 

What  to  atone 
Is  enough  for  my  sinning ! 
This  were  the  cost  to  me, 
This  were  my  winning — 
That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 
At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 
Tearing  my  heart  from  me, 
Hurt  beyond  cure  — 
Calm  and  demure 
Then  must  I  hold  me, 
In  myself  fold  me, 
Lest  he  discover; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me  — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,  yearns  to  him, 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,  lean  to  me, 
Thou  God  above  me ! 


THE   RIVER   INN 

THE  night  was  black  and  drear 
Of  the  last  day  of  the  year. 
Two  guests  to  the  river  inn 
Came,  from  the  wide  world's  bound 
One  with  clangor  and  din, 
The  other  without  a  sound. 


THE   HOMESTEAD  97 

* 

"  Now  hurry,  servants  and  host ! 
Get  the  best  that  your  cellars  boast. 
White  be  the  sheets  and  fine, 
And  the  fire  on  the  hearthstone  bright ; 
Pile  the  wood,  and  spare  not  the  wine, 
And  call  him  at  morning-light." 

"  But  where  is  the  silent  guest  ? 
In  what  chamber  shall  she  rest  ? 
In  this !     Should  she  not  go  higher  ? 
'T  is  damp,  and  the  fire  is  gone." 

"  You  need  not  kindle  the  fire, 
You  need  not  call  her  at  dawn." 

Next  morn  he  sallied  forth 
On  his  journey  to  the  North. 
Oh,  bright  the  sunlight  shone 
Through  boughs  that  the  breezes  stir; 
But  for  her  was  lifted  a  stone 
Under  the  churchyard  fir. 


HERE  stays  the  house,  here  stay  the  selfsame  places, 
Here  the  white  lilacs  and  the  buttonwoods ; 
Here  are  the  pine-groves,  there  the  river-floods, 
And  there  the  threading  brook  that  interlaces 
Green  meadow-bank  with  meadow-bank  the  same. 
The  melancholy  nightly  chorus  came 
Long,  long  ago  from  the  same  pool,  and  yonder 


98  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

Stark  poplars  lift  in  the  same  twilight  air 
Their  ancient  shadows ;  nearer  still,  and  fonder, 
The  black-heart  cherry-tree's  gaunt  branches  bare 
Rasp  on  the  same  old  window  where  I  ponder. 

ii 

And  we,  the  only  living,  only  pass ; 

We  come  and  go,  whither  and  whence  we  know  not. 

From  birth  to  bound  the  same  house  keeps,  alas ! 

New  lives  as  gently  as  the  old ;  there  show  not 

Among  the  haunts  that  each  had  thought  his  own 

The  looks  that  partings  bring  to  human  faces. 

The  black-heart  there,  that  heard  my  earliest  moan, 

And  yet  shall  hear  my  last,  like  all  these  places 

I  love  so  well,  unloving  lives  from  child 

To  child;  from  morning  joy  to  evening  sorrow  — 

Untouched  by  joy,  by  anguish  undefiled ; 

All  one  the  generations  gone,  and  new ; 

All  one  dark  yesterday  and  bright  to-morrow ; 

To  the  old  tree's  insensate  sympathy 

All  one  the  morning  and  the  evening  dew  — 

My  far,  forgotten  ancestor  and  I. 


AT  FOUR   SCORE 

THIS  is  the  house  she  was  bom  in,  full  four  score  years 

ago, 

And  here  she  is  living  still,  bowed  and  ailing,  but  clinging 
Still  to  this  wonted  life — like  an  ancient  and  blasted 

oak-tree, 
Whose  dying  roots  yet  clasp  the  earth  with  an  iron  hold. 


AT  FOUR  SCORE  99 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  and  yonder  across  the 

bay 
Is  the  home  her  lover  built,  for  her  and  for  him  and 

their  children ; 
Daily  she  watched  it  grow,  from  dawn  to  the  evening 

twilight, 
As  it  rose  on  the  orchard  hill,  'mid  the  springtime 

showers  and  bloom. 


There  is  the  village  church,  its  steeple  over  the  trees 
Rises  and  shows  the  clock  she  has  watched  since  the 

day  it  was  started  — 

Oh,  many  a  year  ago,  how  many  she  cannot  remember. 
Now  solemnly  over  the  water  rings  out  the  evening  hour. 

And  there  in  that  very  church, — though,  alas,  how  be 
dizened,  and  changed ! 

They  've  painted  it  up,  she  says,  in  their  queer,  new, 
modern  fashion, — 

There  on  a  morning  in  June,  she  gave  her  hand  to  her 
husband ; 

Her  heart  it  was  his  (she  told  him)  long  years  and  years 
before. 

Now  here  she  sits  at  the  window,  gazing  out  on  steeple 

and  hill, 
All  but  the  houses  are  gone, — the  church,  and  the  trees, 

and  the  houses ; — 
All,  all  have  gone  long  since,  parents,  and  husband,  and 

children ; 
And  herself —  she  thinks,  at  times,  she  too  has  vanished 

and  gone. 


ioo  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

No,  it  cannot  be  she  who  stood  in  the  church  that 

morning  in  June, 
Nor  she  who  felt  at  her  breast  the  lips  of  a  child  in  the 

darkness ; 
But  hark  in  the  gathering  dusk  comes  a  low,  quick  moan 

of  anguish  — 
Ah,  it  is  she  indeed,  who  has  lived,  who  has  loved,  and 

lost. 

For  she  thinks  of  a  wintry  night,  when  her  last  was  taken 

away, 
Forty  years  this  very  month,  the  last,  the  fairest,  the 

dearest ; 
All  gone  —  ah,  yes,  it  is  she  who  has  loved,  who  has 

lost,  and  suffered, 
She  and  none  other  it  is,  left  alone  in  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

Still  with  its  sapless  roots,  that  stay  though  the  branches 

have  dropped  — 
Have  withered,  and  fallen,  and  gone,  their  strength  and 

their  glory  forgotten ; 
Still  with  the  life  that  remains,  silent,  and  faithful,  and 

steadfast, 
Through  sunshine  and  bending  storm  clings  the  oak  to 

its  mother-earth. 


JOHN  CARMAN 

i 

JOHN  CARMAN  of  Carmeltown 

Worked  hard  through  the  livelong  day; 
He  drove  his  awl  and  he  snapped  his  thread 

And  he  had  but  little  to  say. 


JOHN   CARMAN  IOI 

He  had  but  little  to  say 

Except  to  a  neighbor's  child ; 
Three  summers  old  she  was,  and  her  eyes 

Had  a  look  that  was  deep  and  wild. 

Her  hair  was  heavy  and  brown 

Like  clouds  in  a  starry  night. 
She  came  and  sat  by  the  cobbler's  bench 

And  his  soul  was  filled  with  delight. 

No  kith  nor  kin  had  he 

And  he  never  went  gadding  about ; 
A  strange,  shy  man,  the  people  said ; 

They  could  not  make  him  out. 

And  some  of  them  shook  their  heads 

And  would  never  tell  what  they  'd  heard. 

But  he  drove  his  awl  and  snapped  his  thread  — 
And  he  always  kept  his  word ; 

And  the  little  child  that  knew  him 

Better  than  all  the  rest, 
She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 

And  went  to  sleep  on  his  breast. 

One  day  in  that  dreadful  summer 

When  children  died  by  the  score, 
John  Carman  glanced  from  his  work  and  saw 

Her  mother  there  at  the  door. 

He  knew  by  the  look  on  her  face  — 
And  his  own  turned  deathly  white ; 

He  rose  from  his  bench  and  followed  her  out 
And  watched  by  the  child  that  night. 


102  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

He  tended  her  day  and  night ; 

He  watched  by  her  night  and  day. 
He  saw  the  cruel  pain  in  her  eyes; 

He  saw  her  lips  turn  gray. 


ii 

The  day  that  the  child  was  buried 
John  Carman  went  back  to  his  last, 

And  the  neighbors  said  that  for  weeks  and  weeks 
Not  a  word  his  clenched  lips  passed. 

"  He  takes  it  hard,"  they  gossiped, 
"  Poor  man,  he  's  lacking  in  wit " ; 

"  I  '11  drop  in  to-day,"  said  Deacon  Gray, 
"  And  comfort  him  up  a  bit." 

So  Deacon  Gray  dropped  in 

With  a  kind  and  neighborly  air, 
And  before  he  left  he  knelt  on  the  floor 

And  wrestled  with  God  in  prayer. 

And  he  said :  "  O  Lord,  thou  hast  stricken 

This  soul  in  its  babyhood ; 
In  Thy  own  way,  we  beseech  and  pray, 

Bring  forth  from  evil  good." 


in 

That  night  the  fire-bells  rang 

And  the  flames  shot  up  to  the  sky, 

And  into  the  street  as  pale  as  a  sheet 
The  town -folk  flock  and  cry. 


DRINKING  SONG  103 

The  bells  ring  loud  and  long, 

The  flames  leap  high  and  higher, 

The  rattling  engines  come  too  late  — 
The  old  First  Church  is  on  fire  ! 

And  lo  and  behold  in  the  crimson  glare 
They  see  John  Carman  stand  — 

A  look  of  mirth  on  his  iron  lips 
And  a  blazing  torch  in  his  hand. 

"  You  say  it  was  He  who  killed  her  " 
(His  voice  had  a  fearful  sound) : 

"  I  'd  have  you  know,  who  love  him  so, 
I  've  burned  his  house  to  the  ground." 


John  Carman  died  in  prison, 
In  the  madman's  cell,  they  say ; 

And  from  his  crime,  that  I  Ve  told  in  rhyme, 
Heaven  cleanse  his  soul,  I  pray. 


DRINKING   SONG 


THOU  who  lov'st  and  art  forsaken, 
Didst  believe,  and  wert  mistaken, 
From  thy  dream  thou  wilt  not  waken 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
Like  are  infidel,  believer, — 
The  deceived,  and  the  deceiver, 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 


104  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

II 

What  if  them  be  saint  or  sinner, 
Crooked  graybeard,  straight  beginner, 
With  empty  paunch,  or  jolly  dinner, 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
All  alike  are  rich  and  richer, 
King  with  crown,  and  cross-legged  stitcher, 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 

in 

Hope  not  thou  to  live  hereafter 
In  men's  memories  and  laughter, 
When,  'twixt  hearth  and  ringing  rafter, 

Death  thee  shall  call. 
For  we  both  shall  be  forgotten, 
Friend,  when  thou  and  I  are  rotten 

And  the  grave  hides  all. 


THE   VOYAGER 
i 

"  FRIEND,  why  goest  thou  forth 
When  ice-hills  drift  from  the  north 
And  crush  together  ?  " 

"  The  Voice  that  me  doth  call 
Heeds  not  the  ice-hill's  fall, 

Nor  wind,  nor  weather." 


"  But,  friend,  the  night  is  black ; 
Behold  the  driving  wrack 

And  wild  seas  under !  " 


A   LAMENT  105 

"  My  straight  and  narrow  bark 
Fears  not  the  threatening  dark, 
Nor  storm,  nor  thunder." 

in 

"  But  oh,  thy  children  dear ! 
Thy  wife — she  is  not  here, 

I  haste  to  bring  her !  " 

"  No,  no,  it  is  too  late  ! 
Hush,  hush !  I  may  not  wait, 
Nor  weep,  nor  linger." 

IV 

"  Hark !     Who  is  he  that  knocks 
With  slow  and  dreadful  shocks 
The  walls  to  sever  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  Master's  call, 
I  go,  whate'er  befall ; 

Farewell  forever." 


A   LAMENT 

FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  "  JEANNETTE "  BROUGHT 
HOME  ON  THE  "  FRISIA " 


O  GATES  of  ice !  long  have  ye  held  our  loved  ones. 

Ye  Cruel !  how  could  ye  keep  from  us  them  for  whom 
our  hearts  yearned  —  our  dear  ones,  our  fathers,  our  chil 
dren,  our  brothers,  our  lovers. 


106  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Cold  and  Sleet,  Darkness  and  Ice !  hard  have  ye  held 
them ;  ye  would  not  let  them  go. 

Their  hands  ye  have  bound  fast;  their  feet  ye  have 
detained;  and  well  have  ye  laid  hold  upon  the  hearts 
of  our  loved  ones. 

O  silent  Arctic  Night !  thou  hast  wooed  them  from  us. 

O  secret  of  the  white  and  unknown  world !  too  strong 
hast  thou  been  for  us ;  we  were  as  nothing  to  thee ;  thou 
hast  drawn  them  from  us ;  thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

The  long  day  passed ;  thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

The  long,  long  night  came  and  went;  thou  wouldst 
not  let  them  go. 

O  thou  insatiate !  What  to  thee  are  youth,  and  life, 
and  hope,  and  love  ? 

For  thou  art  Death,  not  Life ;  thou  art  Despair,  not 
Hope. 

Nought  to  thee  the  rush  of  youthful  blood;  nought 
to  thee  the  beauty  and  strength  of  our  loved  ones. 

The  breath  of  their  bodies  was  not  sweet  to  thee ; 
they  loved  thee,  and  thou  lovedst  not  them. 

They  followed  thee,  thou  didst  not  look  upon  them ; 
but  still,  O  thou  inviolate !  still  did  they  follow  thee. 

Thee  did  they  follow  through  storm,  through  perils  of 
the  ice,  and  of  the  unknown  darkness. 

The  sharp  spears  of  the  frost  they  feared  not;  the 
terrors  of  death  they  feared  not.  For  thee,  for  thee, 
for  thee,  not  for  us ;  only  that  they  might  look  upon 
thy  face  ! 

All  these  they  endured  for  thee ;  the  thought  of  us 
whom  yet  they  loved,  this  also  they  endured  for  thee. 

For  thou  art  beautiful,  beyond  the  beauty  of  woman. 
In  thy  hair  are  the  stars  of  night.  Thou  wrappest 
about  thee  garments  of  fire  that  burn  not,  and  are 
never  quenched; 


A   LAMENT  107 

When  thou  movest  they  are  moved ;  when  thou 
breathest  they  tremble. 

Yea,  awful  art  thou  in  thy  beauty ;  with  white  fingers 
beckoning  in  mists  and  shadows  of  the  frozen  sea; 
drawing  to  thee  the  hearts  of  heroes. 


ii 

Long,  long  have  they  tarried  in  thy  gates,  O  North ! 

But  now  thou  hast  given  them  up.  Lo,  they  come 
to  us  once  more — our  beloved,  our  only  ones! 

O  dearest,  why  have  ye  stayed  so  long  ? 

With  ye,  night  and  day  have  come  and  gone,  but 
with  us  there  was  night  only. 

But  no,  we  will  not  reproach  ye,  hearts  of  our 
hearts,  dearest  and  best ;  our  fathers,  our  children,  our 
brothers,  our  lovers ! 

Come  back  to  us!  Behold  our  arms  are  open  for 
you ;  ye  are  ours ;  ye  have  returned  unto  us ;  ye  shall 
never  go  hence  again. 

But  why  are  ye  silent,  why  do  ye  not  stir,  why  do 
ye  not  speak  to  us,  O  beloved  ones  ? 

White  are  your  cheeks  like  snow;  your  eyes  they 
do  not  look  upon  us. 

So  long  ye  have  been  gone,  and  is  this  your  joy  to 
see  us  once  more  ? 

Lo !  do  we  not  welcome  ye  ?  Are  not  our  souls 
glad?  Do  not  our  tears,  long  kept,  fall  upon  your 
faces  ? 

Or  do  ye  but  sleep  well,  after  those  hard  and  weary 
labors  ?  O  now  awaken,  for  ye  shall  take  rest  and 
pleasure ;  here  are  your  homes  and  kindred ! 

Listen,  beloved :  here  is  your  sister,  here  is  your 
brother,  here  is  your  lover ! 


108  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

III 

They  will  not  hearken  to  our  voices. 
They  are  still ;  their  eyes  look  not  upon  us. 

0  insatiate!    O  Secret  of  the  white  and  unknown 
world,  cruel  indeed  thou  art ! 

Thou  hast  sent  back  to  us  our  best  beloved;  their 
bodies  thou  hast  rendered  up,  but  their  spirits  thou 
hast  taken  away  from  us  forever. 

In  life  thou  didst  hold  them  from  us — and  in  death, 
in  death  they  are  thine. 

NEW  YORK,  February  20,  1884. 

ILL   TIDINGS 
(THE   STUDIO    CONCERT) 

IN  the  long  studio  from  whose  towering  walls 

Greek  Pheidias  beams,  and  Angelo  appalls, 

Eager  the  listening,  downcast  faces  throng 

While  violins  their  piercing  tones  prolong. 

At  times  I  know  not  if  I  see,  or  hear, 

Yon  statue's  smile,  or  some  not  sorrowing  tear 

Down-falling  on  the  surface  of  the  stream 

That  music  pours  across  my  waking  dream. 

Ah,  is  it  then  a  dream  that  while  repeat 

Those  chords,  like  strokes  of  silver-shod  light  feet, 

And  the  great  Master's  music  marches  on — 

1  hear  the  horses  of  the  Parthenon  ? 

But  all  to-day  seems  vague,  unreal,  far, 
With  fear  and  discord  in  the  dearest  strain, 
For  'neath  yon  slowly-sinking  western  star 
One  that  I  love  lies  on  her  bed  of  pain. 


CONGRESS:    1878  109 

A   NEW  WORLD 

"  I  KNOW,"  he  said, 

"  The  thunder  and  the  lightning  have  passed  by 
And  all  the  earth  is  black,  and  burnt,  and  dead ; 
But,  friend,  the  grass  will  grow  again,  the  flowers 
Again  will  bloom,  the  summer  birds  will  sing, 
And  the  all-healing  sun  will  shine  once  more." 

"  Blind  prophecy,"  she  answered  in  her  woe. 
Yet  still,  as  time  wore  on,  the  prophet's  words 
Came  true, — but  not  all  true.     (So  shall  it  be 
With  all  who  here  may  suffer  mortal  loss.) 
Ere  long  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  sun 
Once  more  made  bright  the  bleak  and  desolate  earth ; 
They  came  once  more,  those  joys  of  other  days ; 
She  felt  them,  moved  among  them,  and  was  glad. 

Glad — glad!    O  mocking  word!    They  came  once 

more, 

But  not  the  same  to  her.     Familiar  they 
As  a  remembered  dream,  and  beautiful — 
But  changed,  all  changed,  the  whole  world  changed 
forever. 


PART    III 

CONGRESS:  1878 

'/^PN  WAS  in  the  year  when  mutterings,  loud  and  deep, 
JL        Were  heard  in  all  the  dark,  distracted  land, 
And  grave  men  questioned :  "  Can  the  state  withstand 
The  shock  and  strain  to  come  ?     Oh,  will  she  keep 

Firm  her  four  walls,  should  the  wild  creature  leap 


no  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

To  ruin  and  ravish  ?     Will  her  pillars  planned 
By  the  great  dead,  tremble  to  either  hand  ? 
The  dead !  would  heaven  they  might  awake  from 
sleep ! " 

Haply  (I  thought)  our  Congress  still  may  hold 
One  voice  of  power  —  when  lo  !  upon  the  blast 
A  sound  like  jackals  ravening  to  and  fro. 

Great  God !     And  has  it  come  to  this  at  last  ? 

Such  noise,  such  shame,  where  once,  not  long  ago, 
The  pure  and  wise  their  living  thoughts  outrolled. 

REFORM 

i 

OH,  how  shall  I  help  to  right  the  world  that  is  going 

wrong ! 

And  what  can  I  do  to  hurry  the  promised  time  of  peace ! 
The  day  of  work  is  short  and  the  night  of  sleep  is  long ; 
And  whether  to  pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing  a 

song, 
To  plow  in  my  neighbor's  field,  or  to  seek  the  golden 

fleece, 
Or  to  sit  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that  ill 

would  cease ! 

ii 

I  think,  sometimes,  it  were  best  just  to  let  the  Lord  alone; 
I  am  sure- some  people  forget  He  was  here  before  they 

came; 
Though  they  say  it  is  all  for  His  glory,  't  is  a  good  deal 

more  for  their  own, 
That  they  peddle  their  petty  schemes,  and  blate  and 

babble  and  groan. 


MEMORIAL  DAY  III 

I  sometimes  think  it  were  best,  and  a  man  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should  he  pass  on  his  silent  way  nor  mix  with  the  noisy 

shame. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 


SHE  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 

The  flags  that  proudly  waved ;  she  heard  the  bugles 

calling ; 

She  saw  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one          » 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  passed ; 
And  at  the  last 
Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 


She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 
As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square ; 
She  heard  the  incessant  hum 
That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom- scented  air  — 
The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 
The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer.     Oh  glorious  and  meet 
To  honor  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part, 
Who  for  their  country  bled ! 

—  The  dead !  Great  God !  she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living,  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart — 
While  far  away 

His  grave  was  decked  with  flowers  by  strangers'  hands 
to-day. 


112  FIVE  .BOOKS   OF   SONG 


NORTH   TO   THE    SOUTH 

LAND  of  the  South,  whose  stricken  heart  and  brow 
Bring  grief  to  eyes  that  erewhile  only  knew 

For  their  own  loss  to  sorrow, —  spurn  not  thou 
These  tribute  tears, —  ah,  we  have  suffered  too. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  1885. 


THE   BURIAL   OF   GRANT 
(NEW  YORK,  AUGUST  8,  1885) 

I 

YE  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war, 

Once  more  from  roaring  cannon  and  the  drums 
And  bugles  blown  at  morn,  the  summons  comes ; 
Forget  the  halting  limb,  each  wound  and  scar ; 
Once  more  your  Captain  calls  to  you; 
Come  to  his  last  review ! 

II 

And  come  ye,  too,  bright  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Ye  who  flamed  heavenward  from  the  embattled  field 
And  ye  whose  harder  fate  it  was  to  yield 
Life  from  the  loathful  prison  or  anguished  bed; 
Dear  ghosts !  come  join  your  comrades  here 
Beside  this  sacred  bier. 

in 

Nor  be  ye  absent,  ye  immortal  band, — 
Warriors  of  ages  past,  and  our  own  age, — 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  right,  and  not  in  rage, 


THE   BURIAL  OF   GRANT  113 

Made  war  that  peace  might  live  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  ever  struck  one  vengeful  blow, 
But  helped  the  fallen  foe. 

IV 

And  fail  not  ye, — but,  ah,  ye  falter  not 
To  join  his  army  of  the  dead  and  living, — 
Ye  who  once  felt  his  might,  and  his  forgiving; 
Brothers,  whom  more  in  love  than  hate  he  smote. 
For  all  his  countrymen  make  room 
By  our  great  hero's  tomb ! 


Come  soldiers  —  not  to  battle  as  of  yore, 

But  come  to  weep ;  ay,  shed  your  noblest  tears ; 
For  lo,  the  stubborn  chief,  who  knew  not  fears, 
Lies  cold  at  last,  ye  shall  not  see  him  more. 
How  long  grim  Death  he  fought  and  well, 
That  poor,  lean  frame  doth  tell. 

VI 

All 's  over  now ;  here  let  our  Captain  rest, 
Silent  amid  the  blare  of  praise  and  blame ; 
Here  let  him  rest,  while  never  rests  his  fame; 
Here  in  the  city's  heart  he  loved  the  best, 
And  where  our  sons  his  tomb  may  see 
To  make  them  brave  as  he;  — 

VII 

As  brave  as  he — he  on  whose  iron  arm 

Our  Greatest  leaned,  our  gentlest  and  most  wise; 
Leaned  when  all  other  help  seemed  mocking  lies, 


114  FIVE   BOOKS   OF  SONG 

While  this  one  soldier  checked  the  tide  of  harm, 
And  they  together  saved  the  state, 
And  made  it  free  and  great. 


THE  DEAD  COMRADE 

At  the  burial  of  Grant,  a  bugler  stood  forth  and  sounded  "  taps. 

I 

COME,  soldiers,  arouse  ye ! 
Another  has  gone ; 
Let  us  bury  our  comrade, 
His  battles  are  done. 
His  sun  it  is  set ; 
He  was  true,  he  was  brave, 
•He  feared  not  the  grave, 
There  is  nought  to  regret. 

ii 

Bring  music  and  banners 
And  wreaths  for  his  bier  — 
No  fault  of  the  fighter 
That  Death  conquered  here. 

Bring  him  home  ne'er  to  rove, 
Bear  him  home  to  his  rest, 
And  over  his  breast 
Fold  the  flag  of  his  love. 

in 

Great  Captain  of  battles, 
We  leave  him  with  thee ! 
What  was  wrong,  O  forgive  it ; 
His  spirit  make  free. 


THE   PRESIDENT 

Sound  taps,  and  away ! 
Out  lights,  and  to  bed ! 
Farewell,  soldier  dead ! 
Farewell  —  for  a  day. 


ON  THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

THIS  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.     Yes,  this  is  he: 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity; 
That  human,  humorous  mouth ;  those  cheeks  that 
hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold ;    • 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on ;  the  lone  agony 
Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 

As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Or  armed  strength — his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 


THE  PRESIDENT 

NOT  his  to  guide  the  ship  while  tempests  blow, 
War's  billows  burst,  and  glorious  thunders  beat ; 
Not  his  the  joy  to  see  an  alien  foe 
Fly  down  the  dreadful  valley  of  defeat ; 


n6  FIVE  BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Not  his  the  fame  of  that  great  soul  and  tried, 
Who  conquered  civil  peace  by  arms  and  love ; 
Nor  his  the  emprise  of  one  who  lately  died 
Hand-clasped  with  foes,  who  weep  his  tomb  above. 

But  this  his  task, —  all  passionless,  unsplendid, — 
To  teach,  in  public  place,  a  nobler  creed ; 
To  build  a  wall, —  alone  or  well  befriended, — 

'Gainst  the  base  partizan's  ignoble  greed. 
Or  will  he  fail,  or  triumph  ?     History  lays 
A  moment  down  her  pen.     A  nation  waits  —  and 
prays. 


PART   IV 

ESSIPOFF 

WHAT  is  her  playing  like  ? 
I  ask  —  while  dreaming  here  under  her  music's 
power. 

'T  is  like  the  leaves  of  the  dark  passion-flower 
Which  grows  on  a  strong  vine  whose  roots,  oh  deep 

they  sink, 
Deep  in  the  ground,  that  flower's  pure  life  to  drink. 

ii 

What  is  her  playing  like  ? 

'T  is  like  a  bird 

Who,  singing  in  a  wild  wood,  never  knows 

That  its  lone  melody  is  heard 

By  wandering  mortal,  who  forgets  his  heavy  woes. 


ADELE   AUS   DER  OHE 

ADELE  AUS   DER   OHE 

(LISZT) 
I 

WHAT  is  her  playing  like  ? 

'T  is  like  the  wind  in  wintry  northern  valleys. 

A  dream-pause;  —  then  it  rallies 

And  once  more  bends  the  pine-tops,  shatters 

The  ice-crags,  whitely  scatters 

The  spray  along  the  paths  of  avalanches, 

Startles  the  blood,  and  every  visage  blanches. 


Half-sleeps  the  wind  above  a  swirling  pool 
That  holds  the  trembling  shadow  of  the  trees ; 
Where  waves  too  wildly  rush  to  freeze 
Though  all  the  air  is  cool ; 
And  hear,  oh  hear,  while  musically  call 
With  nearer  tinkling  sounds,  or  distant  roar, 
Voices  of  fall  on  fall ; 

And  now  a  swelling  blast,  that  dies;  and  now — no 
more,  no  more. 

(CHOPIN) 

i 

AH,  what  celestial  art ! 

And  can  sweet  thoughts  become  pure  tone  and  float, 

All  music,  into  the  tranced  mind  and  heart ! 

Her  hand  scarce  stirs  the  singing,  wiry  metal — 

Hear  from  the  wild-rose  fall  each  perfect  petal! 


u8  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 


And  can  we  have,  on  earth,  of  heaven  the  whole ! 

Heard  thoughts — the  soul  of  inexpressible  thought; 

Roses  of  sound 

That  strew  melodious  leaves  upon  the  silent  ground; 

And  music  that  is  music's  very  soul, 

Without  one  touch  of  earth, — 

Too  tender,  even,  for  sorrow,  and  too  bright  for  mirth ! 


MODJESKA 

THERE  are  four  sisters  known  to  mortals  well, 

Whose  names  are  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Death  and  Love ; 
This  last  it  was  who  did  my  footsteps  move 
To  where  the  other  deep-eyed  sisters  dwell. 

To-night,  or  ere  yon  painted  curtain  fell, 
These,  one  by  one,  before  my  eyes  did  rove 
Through  the  brave  mimic  world  that  Shakespeare  wove. 
Lady !  thy  art,  thy  passion  were  the  spell 

That  held  me,  and  still  holds ;  for  thou  dost  show, 
With  those  most  high  each  in  his  sovereign  art, — 
Shakespeare  supreme,  and  Tuscan  Angelo, — 

Great  art  and  passion  are  one.     Thine  too  the  part 
To  prove,  that  still  for  him  the  laurels  grow 
Who  reaches  through  the  mind  to  pluck  the  heart. 

FOR  AN  ALBUM 

(TO  BE  READ  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AFTER) 

A  CENTURY'S  summer  breezes  shook 

The  maple  shadows  on  the  grass 
Since  she  who  owned  this  ancient  book 

From  the  green  world  to  heaven  did  pass. 


PORTO   FINO  119 

Beside  a  northern  lake  she  grew, 

A  wild-flower  on  its  craggy  walls; 
Her  eyes  were  mingled  gray  and  blue, 

Like  waves  where  summer  sunlight  falls. 

Cheerful  from  morn  to  evening-close, 
No  humblest  work,  no  prayer  forgot ! 

Yet  who  of  woman  born  but  knows 
The  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot ! 

And  she  too  suffered,  though  the  wound 

Was  hidden  from  the  general  gaze, 
And  most  from  those  who  thus  had  found 

An  added  burden  for  their  days. 

She  had  no  special  grace,  nor  art ; 

Her  riches  not  in  banks  were  kept ; 
Her  treasure  was  a  gentle  heart; 

Her  skill  to  comfort  those  who  wept. 

Not  without  foes  her  days  were  passed, 
For  quick  her  burning  scorn  was  fanned. 

Her  friends  were  many  —  least  and  last, 
A  poet  from  a  distant  land. 


PORTO  FINO 

I  KNOW  a  girl  —  she  is  a  poet's  daughter, 

And  many-mooded  as  a  poet's  day, 
And  changing  as  the  Mediterranean  water; 

We  walked  together  by  an  emerald  bay, 

So  deep,  so  green,  so  promontory-hidden 
That  the  lost  mariner  might  peer  in  vain 

Through  storms,  to  find  where  he  erewhile  had  ridden, 
Safe-sheltered  from  the  wild  and  windy  main. 

8 


120  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Down  the  high  stairs  we  clambered  just  to  rest  a 
Cool  moment  in  the  church's  antique  shade. 

How  gay  the  aisles  and  altars !     'T  was  the  festa 
Of  brave  Saint  George  who  the  old  dragon  laid. 

How  bright  the  little  port !     The  red  flags  fluttered, 
Loud  clanged  the  bells,  and  loud  the  children's  glee; 

What  though  some  distant,  unseen  storm-cloud  muttered, 
And  waves  breathed  big  along  the  weedy  quay. 

We  climbed  the  hill  whose  rising  cleaves  asunder 

Green  bay  and  blue  immeasurable  sea ; 
We  heard  the  breakers  at  its  bases  thunder ; 

We  heard  the  priests'  harsh  chant  soar  wild  and  free. 

Then  through  the  graveyard's  straight  and  narrow  portal 
Our  journey  led.    How  dark  the  place !    How  strange 

Its  steep,  black  mountain  wall  —  as  if  the  immortal 
Spirit  could  thus  be  stayed  its  skyward  range ! 

Beyond,  the  smoky  olives  clothed  the  mountains 
In  green  that  grew  through  many  a  moon-lit  night. 

Below,  down  cleft  and  chasm  leaped  snowy  fountains ; 
Above,  the  sky  was  warm,  and  blue,  and  bright ; 

When,  sudden,  from  out  a  fair  and  smiling  heaven 
Burst  forth  the  rain,  quick  as  a  trumpet-blare ; 

Yet  still  the  Italian  sun  each  drop  did  leaven, 
And  turned  the  rain  to  diamonds  in  the  air. 

So  passed  the  day  in  shade,  and  shower,  and  sun, 
Like  thine  own  moods,  thou  sweet  and  changeful 
maiden ! 

Great  Heaven !  deal  kindly  with  this  gentle  one, 
Nor  let  her  soul  too  heavily  be  laden. 


IMPROMPTUS  121 

TO    F.  F.  C. 

(ON   THE    PANSY,  HER   CLASS   FLOWER) 

THIS  is  the  flower  of  thought ; 

Take  it,  thou  empress  of  a  land 

Of  true  hearts,  from  a  loyal  subject's  hand; 

And  with  it  nought, 

O  nought  beneath  life's  ever-brightening  dome 

Of  sad  remembrance  !     May  it  bring 

Dreams  of  joy  only,  and  of  happy  days 

Backward  and  still  to  come ;  — 

Of  birds  that  sang  last  eve,  and  still  shall  sing 

In  dawns  of  morrows  only  joyful  lays. 

Or  yet,  if  thou  shouldst  go 

Not  utterly  unscathed  of  mortal  woe  — 

Thy  blackest  hour  be  touched  by  memory's  gold, 

As  is  this  flower's  leaf.     Then  shalt  thou  hold 

Ever  a  young  heart  in  thee,  ever  as  now 

A  look  of  quenchless  youth  beneath  thy  peerless  brow. 

IMPROMPTUS 

I.    ART 

FOLLOWING  the  sun,  westward  the  march  of  power ! 

The  Rose  of  Might  blooms  in  our  new-world  mart : 
But  see,  just  bursting  forth  from  bud  to  flower, — 

A  late,  slow  growth, —  the  fairer  Rose  of  Art. 

II.    TO    A    SOUTHERN    GIRL 

SWEET  rose  that  bloomed  on  the  red  field  of  war, 
Think  not  too  sadly  of  the  dreadful  Past ! 
Are  not  old  foes  new  friends  —  not  least,  though  last, 

One  whose  far  home  lies  'neath  yon  Northern  star  ? 


122  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

III.    FOR   A    FAN 

EACH  of  us  answers  to  a  call; 

Master  or  mistress  have  we  all. 

I  belong  to  lovely  Anne ; 

Dost  thou  not  wish  thou  wert  a  fan  ? 

Thus  to  be  treasured,  thus  to  be  prest, 

Pleasuring  thus,  and  thus  caressed  ? 

PART  V 
MUSIC  AND  WORDS 


THIS  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought: 
Hath  human  speech  the  power  thus  to  be  wrought, 
Into  such  melody, — pure,  sensuous  sound, — 
Into  such  mellow,  murmuring  mazes  caught ; 
Can  words  (I  said),  when  these  keen  tones  are  bound, — 
(Silent,  except  in  memory  of  this  hour)  — 
Can  human  words  alone  usurp  the  power 
Of  trembling  strings  that  thrill  to  the  very  soul, 
And  of  this  ecstasy  bring  back  the  whole  ? 


Ah  no,  ('t  was  answere'd  in  my  inmost  heart,) 
Unto  itself  sufficient  is  each  art, 
And  each  doth  utter  what  none  other  can  — 
Some  hidden  mood  of  the  large  soul  of  man. 
Ah,  think  not  thou  with  words  well  interweaved 
To  wake  the  tones  wherein  the  viol  grieved 
With  its  most  heavy  burden;  think  not  thou, 
Adventurous,  to  push  thy  shallop's  prow 


THE   POET'S   FAME  123 

Into  that  surge  of  well-remembered  tones, 
Striving  to  match  each  wandering  wind  that  moans, 
Each  bell  that  tolls,  and  every  bugle's  blowing 
With  some  most  fitting  word,  some  verse  bestowing 
A  never- shifting  form  on  that  which  passed 
Swift  as  a  bird  that  glimmers  down  the  blast. 

in 

So,  still  unworded,  save  in  memory  mute, 
Rest  thou  sweet  hour  of  viol  and  of  lute ; 
Of  thoughts  that  never,  never  can  be  spoken, 
Too  frail  for  the  rough  usage  of  men's  words  — 
Thoughts  that  shall  keep  their  silence  all  unbroken 
Till  music  once  more  stirs  them; — then  like  birds 
That  in  the  night-time  slumber,  they  shall  wake, 
While  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  forest  shake. 
Oh,  hark,  I  hear  it  now,  that  tender  strain 
Fulfilled  with  all  of  sorrow  save  its  pain. 

THE  POET'S  FAME 

MANY  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought 
To  shake  the  hearts  of  men.     Yea,  he  had  caught 
The  inarticulate  and  murmuring  sound 
That  comes  at  midnight  from  the  darkened  ground 
When  the  earth  sleeps  ;  for  this  he  framed  a  word 
Of  human  speech,  and  hearts  were  strangely  stirred 
That  listened.     And  for  him  the  evening  dew 
Fell  with  a  sound  of  music,  and  the  blue 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  he  had  the  art 
To  put  in  language  that  did  seem  a  part 
Of  the  great  scope  and  progeny  of  nature. 
In  woods,  or  waves,  or  winds,  there  was  no  creature 

8* 


124  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Mysterious  to  him.     He  was  too  wise 
Either  to  fear,  or  follow,  or  despise 
Whom  men  call  Science — for  he  knew  full  well 
All  she  had  told,  or  still  might  live  to  tell, 
Was  known  to  him  before  her  very  birth ; 
Yea,  that  there  was  no  secret  of  the  earth, 
Nor  of  the  waters  under,  nor  the  skies, 
That  had  been  hidden  from  the  poet's  eyes; 
By  him  there  was  no  ocean  unexplored, 
Nor  any  savage  coast  that  had  not  roared 
Its  music  in  his  ears. 

He  loved  the  town  — 

Not  less  he  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 
Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills ; 
Where  he  might  listen  to  the  starts  and  thrills 
Of  birds  that  sang  and  rustled  in  the  trees, 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  birds'  shadows  as  they  fluttered  by 
Or  slowly  wheeled  across  the  unclouded  sky. 

All  these  were  written  on  the  poet's  soul; 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  utmost,  distant  goal 
Of  the  human  mind.     His  fiery  thought  did  run 
To  Time's  beginning,  ere  yon  central  sun 
Had  warmed  to  life  the  swarming  broods  of  men. 
In  waking  dreams,  his  many-visioned  ken 
Clutched  the  large,  final  destiny  of  things. 
He  heard  the  starry  music,  and  the  wings 
Of  beings  unfelt  by  others  thrilled  the  air 
About  him.     Yet  the  loud  and  angry  blare 
Of  tempests  found  an  echo  in  his  verse, 
And  it  was  here  that  lovers  did  rehearse 
The  ditties  they  would  sing  when,  not  too  soon, 
Came  the  warm  night;  —  shadows,  and  stars,  and  moon. 


THE   POET'S   FAME  125 

Who  heard  his  songs  were  filled  with  noble  rage, 
And  wars  took  fire  from  his  prophetic  page  — 
Most  righteous  wars,  wherein,  'midst  blood  and  tears, 
The  world  rushed  onward  through  a  thousand  years. 
And  still  he  made  the  gentle  sounds  of  peace 
Heroic ;  bade  the  nation's  anger  cease ! 
Bitter  his  songs  of  grief  for  those  who  fell  — 
And  for  all  this  the  people  loved  him  well. 

They  loved  him  well  and  therefore,  on  a  day, 
They  said  with  one  accord :  "  Behold  how  gray 
Our  poet's  head  hath  grown !     Ere  't  is  too  late 
Come,  let  us  crown  him  in  our  Hall  of  State ; 
Ring  loud  the  bells,  give  to  the  winds  his  praise, 
And  urge  his  fame  to  other  lands  and  days !  " 

So  was  it  done,  and  deep  his  joy  therein. 
But  passing  home  at  night,  from  out  the  din 
Of  the  loud  Hall,  the  poet,  unaware, 
Moved  through  a  lonely  and  dim-lighted  square  — 
There  was  the  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  air 
And  then  the  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
Startled  by  his  slow  tread.     What  memory  stirred 
Within  his  brain  he  told  not.     Yet  this  night, — 
Lone  lingering  when  the  eastern  heavens  were  bright, — 
He  wove  a  song  of  such  immortal  art 
That  there  lives  not  in  all  the  world  one  heart  — 
One  human  heart  unmoved  by  it.     Long !  long ! 
The  laurel-crown  has  failed,  but  not  that  song 
Born  of  the  night  and  sorrow.     Where  he  lies 
At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  skies, 
Age  after  age,  from  far-off  lands  they  come, 
With  tears  and  flowers,  to  seek  the  poet's  tomb. 


126  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


THE  POET'S  PROTEST 


O  MAN  with  your  rule  and  measure, 

Your  tests  and  analyses ! 
You  may  take  your  empty  pleasure, 

May  kill  the  pine,  if  you  please ; 
You  may  count  the  rings  and  the  seasons, 

May  hold  the  sap  to  the  sun, 
You  may  guess  at  the  ways  and  the  reasons 

Till  your  little  day  is  done. 


But  for  me  the  golden  crest 

That  shakes  in  the  wind  and  launches 
Its  spear  toward  the  reddening  West ! 

For  me  the  bough  and  the  breeze, 
The  sap  unseen,  and  the  glint 

Of  light  on  the  dew-wet  branches, — 
The  hiding  shadows,  the  hint 

Of  the  soul  of  mysteries. 

in 

You  may  sound  the  sources  of  life, 

And  prate  of  its  aim  and  scope ; 
You  may  search  with  your  chilly  knife 

Through  the  broken  heart  of  hope. 
But  for  me  the  love-sweet  breath, 

And  the  warm,  white  bosom  heaving, 
And  never  a  thought  of  death, 

And  only  the  bliss  of  living. 


"WHEN   THE   TRUE   POET   COMES"  127 

TO  A  YOUNG  POET 
i 

IN  the  morning  of  the  skies 
I  heard  a  lark  arise. 
On  the  first  day  of  the  year 
A  wood-flower  did  appear. 

ii 

Like  a  violet,  like  a  lark, 
Like  the  dawn  that  kills  the  dark, 
Like  a  dewdrop,  trembling,  clinging, 
Is  the  poet's  first  sweet  singing. 

"WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES" 

i 
"  WHEN  the  true  poet  comes,  how  shall  we  know  him  ? 

By  what  clear  token ;  manners,  language,  dress  ? 
Or  will  a  voice  from  heaven  speak  and  show  him  — 

Him  the  swift  healer  of  the  earth's  distress  ? 
Tell  us,  that  when  the  long-expected  comes 

At  last,  with  mirth  and  melody  and  singing, 
We  him  may  greet  with  banners,  beat  of  drums, 
Welcome  of  men  and  maids  and  joybells  ringing ; 
And,  for  this  poet  of  ours, 
Laurels  and  flowers." 

ii 
Thus  shall  ye  know  him,  this  shall  be  his  token  — 

Manners  like  other  men,  an  unstrange  gear; 
His  speech  not  musical,  but  harsh  and  broken 

Will  sound  at  first,  each  line  a  driven  spear. 


128  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

For  he  will  sing  as  in  the  centuries  olden, 
Before  mankind  its  earliest  fire  forgot  — 
Yet  whoso  listens  long  hears  music  golden. 

How  shall  ye  know  him  ?  Ye  shall  know  him  not 
Till,  ended  hate  and  scorn, 
To  the  grave  he  's  borne. 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

i 

"  I  LIKE  your  book,  my  boy, 
'T  is  full  of  youth  and  joy, 
And  love  that  sings  and  dreams. 
Yet  it  puzzles  me,"  he  said;          , 
"  A  string  of  pearls  it  seems, 
But  I  cannot  find  the  thread." 


"  O  friend  of  olden  days ! 
Dear  to  me  is  your  praise, 
But,  many  and  many  a  year 
You  must  go  back,  I  fear; 
You  must  journey  back,"  I  said, 
"  To  find  that  golden  thread  !  " 

THE   SONNET 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?     'T  is  the  pearly  shell 

That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea ; 

A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously ; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 
What  is  a  sonnet  ?     'T  is  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song  —  ah  me  ! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 


THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS  129 

This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath ; 
The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played, 
And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls : 

A  sea  this  is  —  beware  who  ventureth  ! 
For  like  a  fiord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 
Mid-ocean  deep  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 


A   SONNET   OF  DANTE 
(^  Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare"} 

So  FAIR,  so  pure  my  lady  as  she  doth  go 
Upon  her  way,  and  others  doth  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh  trembling-mute, 
And  every  eye  is  troubled  by  that  glow. 

Her  praise  she  hears  as  on  she  moveth  slow, 
Clothed  with  humility  as  with  a  suit ; 
She  seems  a  thing  that  came  (without  dispute) 
From  heaven  to  earth  a  miracle  to  show. 

Through  eyes  that  gaze  on  her  benignity 
There  passes  to  the  heart  a  sense  so  sweet 
That  none  can  understand  who  may  not  prove ; 

And  from  her  countenance  there  seems  to  move 
A  gentle  spirit,  with  all  love  replete, 
That  to  the  soul  comes,  saying,  "  Sigh,  O  sigh !  " 


THE    NEW   TROUBADOURS 

(AVIGNON,  1879) 

THEY  said  that  all  the  troubadours  had  flown  — 
No  bird  to  flash  a  wing  or  swell  a  throat ! 
But  as  we  journeyed  down  the  rushing  Rhone 
To  Avignon,  what  joyful  note  on  note 


13°  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Burst  forth  beneath  thy  shadow,  O  Ventour ! 

Whose  eastward  forehead  takes  the  dawn  divine ; — 
Ah,  dear  Provence  !  ah,  happy  troubadour, 
And  that  sweet,  mellow,  antique  song  of  thine ! 

First,  Roumanille,  the  leader  of  the  choir, 

Then  graceful  Matthieu,  tender,  sighing,  glowing, 
Then  Wyse  all  fancy,  Aubanel  all  fire, 

And  Mistral,  mighty  as  the  north-wind's  blowing; 
And  youthful  Gras,  and  lo  !  among  the  rest 
A  mother-bird  who  sang  above  her  nest. 

KEATS 

TOUCH  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame, 

Sighing,  "  Had  he  but  lived  he  had  done  so  "; 

Or,  "  Were  his  heart  not  eaten  out  with  woe 

John  Keats  had  won  a  prouder,  mightier  name !  " 
Take  him  for  what  he  was  and  did  —  nor  blame 

Blind  fate  for  all  he  suffered.     Thou  shouldst  know 

Souls  such  as  his  escape  no  mortal  blow  — 

No  agony  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  shame  ! 
"  Whose  name  was  writ  in  water  !  "  What  large  laughter 

Among  the  immortals  when  that  word  was  brought ! 

Then  when  his  fiery  spirit  rose  flaming  after 
High  toward  the  topmost  heaven  of  heavens  up-caught ! 

"  All  hail !  our  younger  brother !  "  Shakespeare  said, 

And  Dante  nodded  his  imperial  head. 

AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME 

(PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA) 

SOMETHING  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind; 
He  hath  a  gentler  aspect,  looking  back; 
For  flowers  may  bloom  in  the  dread  thunder's  track, 
And  even  the  cloud  that  struck  with  light  was  lined. 


DESECRATION  131 

Thus,  when  the  heart  is  silent,  speaks  the  mind ; 

But  there  are  moments  when  comes  rushing,  black 

And  fierce  upon  us,  the  old,  awful  lack, 

And  Death  once  more  is  cruel,  senseless,  blind. 
So  when  I  saw  beside  a  Roman  portal 

"In  this  house  died  John  Keats" — for  tears  that  sprung 

I  could  no  further  read.     O  bard  immortal ! 
Not  for  thy  fame's  sake  —  but  so  young,  so  young ; 

Such  beauty  vanished;  spilled  such  heavenly  wine; 

All  quenched  that  power  of  deathless  song  divine ! 

DESECRATION 

THE  poet  died  last  night ; 

Outworn  his  mortal  frame. 
He  hath  fought  well  the  fight, 

And  won  a  deathless  name. 

Bring  laurel  for  his  bier, 

And  flowers  to  deck  the  hearse. 

The  tribute  of  a  tear 
To  his  immortal  verse. 

Hushed  is  that  piercing  strain  — 
Who  heard,  for  pleasure  wept. 

His  were  our  joy  and  pain  ; 
He  sang  —  our  sorrow  slept. 

. .  Yes,  weep  for  him ;  no  more 

Shall  such  high  songs  have  birth ; 
Gone  is  the  harp  he  bore 
Forever  from  the  earth. 

Weep,  weep,  and  scatter  flowers 

Above  his  precious  dust ; 
Child  of  the  heavenly  powers  — 

Divine,  and  pure,  and  just. 


132  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Weep,  weep  —  for  when  to-night 
Shall  hoot  the  horned  owl, 

Beneath  the  pale  moon's  light 
The  human  ghouls  will  prowl. 

What  creatures  those  will  throng 

Within  the  sacred  gloom, 
To  do  our  poet  wrong  — 
.  To  break  the  sealed  tomb  ? 

Not  the  great  world  and  gay 
That  pities  not,  nor  halts 

By  thoughtless  night  or  day, 
But, —  O  more  sordid- false !  — 

His  trusted  friend  and  near, 
To  whom  his  spirit  moved ; 

The  brother  he  held  dear ; 
The  woman  that  he  loved. 


"JOCOSERIA" 

MEN  grow  old  before  their  time, 
With  the  journey  half  before  them ; 

In  languid  rhyme 
They  deplore  them. 

Life  up-gathers  carks  and  cares, 
So  good-by  to  maid  and  lover ! 

Find  three  gray  hairs, 
And  cry  "  All  's  over !  " 

Look  at  Browning !     How  he  keeps 
In  the  seventies  still  a  heart 

That  never  sleeps  — 
Still  an  art 


OUR  ELDER   POETS  133 

Full  of  youth's  own  grit  and  power, 

Thoughts  we  deemed  to  boys  belonging ; 

The  springtime's  flower  — 
Love-and-longing. 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 
WITH  EMERSON'S  "  POEMS  " 

EDMUND,  in  this  book  you  '11  find 

Music  from  a  prophet's  mind. 

Even  when  harsh  the  numbers  be, 

There  's  an  inward  melody ; 

And  when  sound  is  one  with  sense, 

'T  is  a  bird's  song,  sweet,  intense. 

Chide  me  not  the  book  is  small, 

For  in  it  lies  our  all  in  all. 

We  who  in  El  Dorado  live 

Have  no  better  gift  to  give. 

When  no  more  is  silver  mill, 

Golden  stream,  or  iron  hill  — 

Search  the  New  World  from  pole  to  pole, 

Here  you  '11  find  its  singing  soul ! 


OUR  ELDER  POETS 

(1878) 

HE  is  gone !   We  shall  not  see  again 
That  reverend  form,  those  silver  locks ; 

Silent  at  last  the  iron  pen 

And  words  that  poured  like  molten  rocks. 


134  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

He  is  gone,  and  we  who  thought  him  cold 
Miss  from  our  lives  a  generous  heat, 

And  know  that  stolid  form  did  hold 
A  fire  that  burned,  a  heart  that  beat. 

He  is  gone,  but  other  bards  remain  — 
Our  gray  old  prophet,  young  at  heart, 

Our  scholar- poet's  patriot  strain ; 
And  he  of  the  wise  and  mellow  art. 

And  he  who  first  to  science  sought, 

But  to  the  merry  muses  after ; 
Who  learned  a  secret  never  taught  — 

The  knowledge  of  men's  tears  and  laughter. 

He  also  in  whose  music  rude 

Our  peopled  hills  and  prairies  speak, 

Resounding,  in  his  modern  mood, 
The  tragic  fury  of  the  Greek. 

And  he,  too,  lingers  round  about 
The  darling  city  of  his  birth  — 

The  bard  whose  gray  eyes  looking  out 
Find  scarce  one  peer  in  all  the  earth. 


LONGFELLOW'S  "BOOK  OF  SONNETS" 

'T  WAS  Sunday  evening  as  I  wandered  down 
The  central  highway  of  this  swarming  place, 
And  felt  a  pleasant  stillness  —  not  a  trace 
Of  Saturday's  harsh  turmoil  in  the  town ; 

Then  as  a  gentle  breeze  just  stirs  a  gown, 
Yet  almost  motionless,  or  as  the  face 
Of  silence  smiles,  I  heard  the  chimes  of  "  Grace  " 
Sound  murmuring  through  the  autumn  evening's 
brown. 


THE   MODERN   RHYMER  13$ 

To-day,  again,  I  passed  along  Broadway 
In  the  fierce  tumult  and  mid-noise  of  noon, 
While  'neath  my  feet  the  solid  pavement  shook; 

When  lo !  it  seemed  that  bells  began  to  play 
Upon  a  Sabbath  eve  a  silver  tune  — 
For  as  I  walked  I  read  the  poet's  book. 


"H.  H." 

I  WOULD  that  in  the  verse  she  loved  some  word, 
Not  all  unfit,  I  to  her  praise  might  frame — 
Some  word  wherein  the  memory  of  her  name 
Should  through  long  years  its  incense  still  afford. 

But  no,  her  spirit  smote  with  its  own  sword ; 
Herself  has  lit  the  fire  whose  blood-red  flame 
Shall  not  be  quenched  —  this  is  her  living  fame 
Who  struck  so  well  the  sonnet's  subtle  chord. 

None  who  e'er  knew  her  can  believe  her  dead ; 
Though  should  she  die  they  deem  it  well  might  be 
Her  spirit  took  its  everlasting  flight 

In  summer's  glory,  by  the  sunset  sea  — 
That  onward  through  the  Golden  Gate  it  fled. 
Ah,  where  that  bright  soul  is  cannot  be  night. 


THE   MODERN   RHYMER 

i 

Now  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme, 
Have  not  we  sworn  it,  many  a  time, 
That  we  no  more  our  verse  would  scrawl, 
For  Shakespeare  he  had  sung  it  all ! 


136  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

And  yet  whatever  others  see 

The  earth  is  fresh  to  you  and  me ; 

And  birds  that  sing,  and  winds  that  blow, 

And  blooms  that  make  the  country  glow, 

And  lusty  swains,  and  maidens  bright, 

And  clouds  by  day,  and  stars  by  night, 

And  all  the  pictures  in  the  skies 

That  moved  before  Will  Shakespeare's  eyes ; 

Love,  hate,  and  scorn ;  frost,  fire,  and  flower ; 

On  us  as  well  as  him  have  power. 

Go  to  !  our  spirits  shall  not  be  laid, 

Silenced  and  smothered  by  a  shade. 

Avon  is  not  the  only  stream 

Can  make  a  poet  sing  and  dream ; 

Nor  are  those  castles,  queens,  and  kings 

The  height  of  sublunary  things. 


Beneath  the  false  moon's  pallid  glare, 
By  the  cool  fountain  in  the  square 
(This  gray-green  dusty  square  they  set 
Where  two  gigantic  highways  met) 
We  hear  a  music  rare  and  new, 
Sweet  Shakespeare  was  not  known  to  you ! 
You  saw  the  New  World's  sun  arise ; 
High  up  it  shines  in  our  own  skies. 
You  saw  the  ocean  from  the  shore; 
Through  mid-seas  now  our  ship  doth  roar  — 
A  wild,  new,  teeming  world  of  men 
That  wakens  in  the  poet's  brain 
Thoughts  that  were  never  thought  before 
Of  hope,  and  longing,  and  despair, 
Wherein  man's  never-resting  race 


THE   MODERN   RHYMER  137 

Westward,  still  westward,  on  doth  fare, 

Doth  still  subdue,  and  still  aspire, 

Or  turning  on  itself  doth  face 

Its  own  indomitable  fire;  — 

O  million-centuried  thoughts  that  make 

The  Past  seem  but  a  shallop's  wake ! 


TWO   WORLDS 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


TWO  WORLDS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PART  I 
TWO  WORLDS 

I.    THE    VENUS    OF    MILO 

GRACE,  majesty,  and  the  calm  bliss  of  life; 
No  conscious  war  'twixt  human  will  and  duty 
Here  breathes,  forever  free  from  pain  and  strife, 
The  old,  untroubled  pagan  world  of  beauty. 

II.    MICHAEL  ANGELO'S    SLAVE 

OF  life,  of  death  the  mystery  and  woe, 

Witness  in  this  mute,  carven  stone  the  whole. 

That  suffering  smile  were  never  fashioned  so 
Before  the  world  had  wakened  to  a  soul. 


PART   II 

THE   STAR   IN   THE   CITY 

AS  down  the  city  street 
_T\.  I  pass  at  the  twilight  hour, 
'Mid  the  noise  of  wheels  and  hoofs 
That  grind  on  the  stones,  and  beat ; 
141 


142  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 


Upward,  by  spire  and  tower, 
Over  the  chimneys  and  roofs 
Climbs  my  glance  to  the  skies, 
And  I  see,  with  a  glad  surprise, 
A  mist  with  a  core  of  light. 

Slowly,  as  grows  the  night, — 
As  the  sky  turns  blue  from  gray, — 
Slowly  it  beams  more  bright, 
And  keeps  with  me  on  my  way. 

Soul  of  the  twilight  star 
That  leads  me  from  afar, 
Spirit  that  keener  glows 
As  the  daylight  darker  grows ; 
That  leaps  the  chasm  of  blue 
Where  the  cross-street  thunders  through, 
And  follows  o'er  roof  and  spire, 
In  the  night-time  soaring  higher; 
I  know  thee,  and  only  I, 
Thou  comrade  of  the  sky  — 
Star  of  the  poet's  heart, 
The  light  and  soul  of  his  art. 

MOONLIGHT 


'T  is  twelve  o'  the  clock. 

The  town  is  still; 
As  gray  as  a  rock 

From  gable  to  sill 
Each  cottage  is  standing. 

The  narrow  street 

(Where  the  tree-tops  meet), 
From  the  woods  to  the  landing, 
Is  black  with  shadows ; 


MOONLIGHT  143 

The  roofs  are  white, 
And  white  are  the  meadows ; 
The  harbor  is  bright. 
Can  this  be  night  ? 

ii 

'T  is  twelve  o'  the  clock. 

The  town  is  still ; 
As  still  as  a  stock 

From  harbor  to  hill. 
The  moon's  broad  marge 

Has  no  stars  near, 

Far  off  how  clear 
They  shine,  how  large ! 
Something  is  strange 

In  the  air,  in  the  light; 
Come  forth !     Let  us  range 

In  the  black,  in  the  white, 

Through  the  day-like  night. 

in 

In  the  elm-trees  all 

No  flutter,  no  twitter; 
From  the  granite  wall 

The  small  stars  glitter. 
A  filmy  thread 

My  forehead  brushes ; 

A  meteor  rushes 
From  green  to  red. 
Nought  is  but  the  bliss 

Of  this  dark,  of  this  white, 
Of  these  stars — of  this  kiss, 

O  my  Love  and  my  Light 

In  the  day  and  the  night. 


144  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

"  I  CARE  NOT  IF  THE  SKIES  ARE  WHITE  " 

i 

I  CARE  not  if  the  skies  are  white, 

Nor  if  the  fields  are  gold ; 
I  care  not  whether  't  is  black  or  bright, 
Or  winds  blow  soft  or  cold ; 

But  O  the  dark,  dark  woods, 
For  thee,  and  me,  and  love. 

ii 

Let  all  but  us  at  last  depart, 

The  great  world  say  farewell ! 
This  is  the  kingdom  of  the  heart, 
Where  only  three  may  dwell ; 

And  O  the  dark,  dark  woods, 
For  thee,  and  me,  and  love. 


CONTRASTS 

i 

THUNDER  in  the  north  sky, 

Sunshine  in  the  south ; 
Frowning  eyes  and  forehead 

And  a  smiling  mouth. 

ii 

Maiden  in  the  morning  — 

Love  her  ?  Yes,  but  fear  her ! 

In  the  moony  shadows  — 
Nearer,  nearer,  nearer ! 


SERENADE 

SERENADE 

(FOR  MUSIC) 
i 

DEEP  in  the  ocean  of  night 

A  pearl  through  the  darkness  shines ; 
Asleep  in  the  garden  of  night 

A  lily's  head  reclines ; 
Afar  in  the  forest  of  night 

Dreams  the  nightingale ; 
Clouds  in  the  sky  of  night 

Make  one  bright  star  grow  pale. 

ii 

O  thou,  sweet  soul  of  my  love, 

Art  my  pearl,  my  lily-flower ; 
Thou,  hiding  heart  of  my  love, 

Art  my  bird,  in  thy  maiden  bower ; 
Heart  of  my  only  love 

That  shin'st  in  the  heavens  afar  — 
Thou,  in  the  night  of  love, 

Art  my  one,  dear,  trembling  star. 

in 

Let  me  draw  thee  to  the  light 

Pearl  of  the  shadowy  sea ! 
Awake,  thou  lily  of  light, 

Turn  thy  face  divine  on  me ! 
Arouse  thee,  bird  of  the  night, 

Let  thy  voice  to  my  voice  reply ! 
Star  of  thy  lover's  night, 

Shine  forth  or  I  die  —  I  die ! 


146  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

LARGESS 

i 
SWEET  mouth,  dark  eyes,  deep  heart  — 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  glamour  heaven  could  fashion 
With  its  divinest  art; 

A  woman's  life  and  love,  a  woman's  passion : 

n 

But  these,  at  last,  to  win, 

Land,  or  sea,  or  hell,  or  heaven  might  well  be  ravished 
At  price  of  any  sin  — 

Yet  freely  all  she  on  her  lover  lavished. 

INDOORS,  AT  NIGHT 

THE  window's  white,  the  candle's  red, 

Show  evening  falleth  overhead ; 

The  candle's  red,  the  window's  black, 

And  earth  is  close  in  midnight's  sack ; 

The  candle  fades, 

The  midnight  shades 

Turn  suddenly  a  starry  blue  — 

And  now  to  dreams,  my  soul,  of  you ! 

THE  ABSENT  LOVER 

THE  purple  of  the  summer  fields,  the  dark 
Of  forests,  and  the  upward  mountain  sweep  — 
Broken  by  crags,  and  scar  of  avalanche ; 
The  trembling  of  the  tops  of  million  trees ; 


SANCTUM    SANCTORUM  147 

A  world  of  sunlight  thrilled  with  winds  of  dawn ; 
All  these  I  feel,  I  breathe,  all  these  I  am 
When  with  closed  eyes  I  bring  thy  presence  near, 
And  touch  thy  spirit  with  my  spirit's  love. 


«  TO-NIGHT  THE  MUSIC  DOTH 
A  BURDEN  BEAR" 

TO-NIGHT  the  music  doth  a  burden  bear — 
One  word  that  moans  and  murmurs ;  doth  exhale 
Tremulously  as  perfume  on  the  air 
From  out  a  rose  blood-red,  or  lily  pale. 
The  burden  is  thy  name,  dear  soul  of  me, 
Which  the  rapt  melodist  unknowing  all 
Still  doth  repeat  through  fugue  and  reverie ; 
Thy  name,  to  him  unknown,  to  me  doth  call, 
And  weeps  my  heart  at  every  music-fall. 


SANCTUM  SANCTORUM 

i 

I  THOUGHT  I  knew  the  mountain's  every  mood, 
Gray,  black  with  storms,  or  lit  by  lightening  dawn 
But  once  in  evening  twilight  came  a  spell 
Upon  its  brow,  that  held  me  with  new  power ; 
A  look  of  unknown  beauty,  a  deep  mood 
Touched  with  a  sorrow  as  of  human  kind. 

ii 

I  thought  I  knew  full  well  my  comrade's  face, 
But  a  new  face  it  was  to  me  this  day. 


4-8  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

She  sat  among  the  worshipers  and  heard 
The  preacher's  voice,  yet  listened  not,  but  leaned 
Her  head  unto  a  tone  whose  accents  fell 
On  her  sweet  spirit  only.    Deep  the  awe 
Struck  then  upon  me,  for  my  friend  no  more 
Seemed  to  be  near,  as  with  forgetting  gaze, 
And  piteous  features  steeped  in  tenderness, 
She  thought  on  things  unspeakable  —  unknown 
To  all  the  world  beside. 

in 

When  forth  doth  pass, 
In  holy  pilgrimage  and  awful  quest, 
The  soul  of  thy  soul's  comrade,  thou  must  stand 
In  silence  by,  and  let  it  move  alone 
And  unattended  far  to  the  inner  shrine ; 
Thou  canst  but  wait,  and  bow  thine  head,  and  pray; 
And  well  for  thee  if  thou  may'st  prove  so  pure, — 
Ended  that  hour, —  thy  comrade  thou  regain'st, 
Thine  as  before,  or  even  more  deeply  thine. 


THE  GIFT 


LIFE  came  to  me  and  spoke : 
"A  palace  for  thee  I  have  built 
Wherein  to  take  thy  pleasure ; 
I  have  filled  it  with  priceless  treasure ; 
Seven  days  shalt  thou  dwell  therein ; 
Thy  joy  shall  be  keener  than  sin, 
Without  the  stain  of  guilt  — 
Enter  the  door  of  oak !  " 


THE  GIFT  149 

II 

I  entered  the  oaken  door ; 
Within,  no  ray  of  light ; 
I  saw  no  golden  store, 
My  heart  stood  still  with  fright; 
To  curse  Life  was  I  fain ; 
Then  one  unseen  before 
Laid  in  my  own  her  hand, 
And  said :  "  Come  thou  and  know 
This  is  the  House  of  Woe; — 
I  am  Life's  sister,  Pain." 

in 

Through  many  a  breathless  way, 
In  dark,  on  dizzying  height, 
She  led  me  through  the  day 
And  into  the  dreadful  night. 
My  soul  was  sore  distressed 
And  wildly  I  longed  for  rest; — 
Till  a  chamber  met  my  sight, 
Far  off,  and  hid,  and  still, 
With  diamonds  all  bedight 
And  every  precious  thing; 
Not  even  a  god  might  will 
More  beauty  there  to  bring. 

IV 

Then  spoke  Life's  sister,  Pain : 
"  Here  thou  as  a  king  shalt  reign, 
Here  shalt  thou  take  thy  pleasure, 
This  is  the  priceless  treasure, 
The  chamber  of  thy  delight 
Through  endless  day  and  night ; 
Rejoice,  this  is  the  end  — 
Thou  hast  found  the  heart  of  a  friend." 


150  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


"AH,  TIME,  GO  NOT  SO  SOON" 

AH,  Time,  go  not  so  soon ; 

I  would  not  thus  be  used,  I  would  forego  that  boon ; 

Turn  back,  swift  Time,  and  let 

Me  many  a  year  forget ; 

Let  her  be  strange  once  more  —  an  unfamiliar  tune, 

An  unimagined  flower, 

Not  known  till  that  mute,  wondrous  hour 

When  first  we  met ! 


"THE   YEARS   ARE   ANGELS" 

THE  years  are  angels  that  bring  down  from  Heaven 
Gifts  of  the  gods.     What  has  the  angel  given 
Who  last  night  vanished  up  the  heavenly  wall  ? 
He  gave  a  friend — the  gods'  best  gift  of  all. 


"IN   HER  YOUNG   EYES" 

IN  her  young  eyes  the  children  looked  and  found 
Their  happy  comrade.    Summer  souls  false-bound 
In  age's  frosty  winter, —  without  ruth, — 
Lived  once  again  in  her  their  long-lost  youth. 


"YESTERDAY,  WHEN  WE  WERE  FRIENDS" 

i 

YESTERDAY,  when  we  were  friends, 
We  were  scarcely  friends  at  all  ; 
Now  we  have  been  friends  so  long, 
And  our  love  has  grown  so  strong. 


LEO  151 

II 

When  to-morrow's  eve  shall  fall 
We  shall  say,  as  night  descends, 

Again  shall  say :  Ah,  yesterday 
Scarcely  were  we  friends  at  all  — 

Now  we  have  been  friends  so  long ; 

Our  love  has  grown  so  deep,  so  strong. 

A   NIGHT   SONG 

(FOR  THE  GUITAR) 

THE  leaves  are  dark  and  large,  Love, 
'T  is  blue  at  every  marge,  Love ; 

The  stars  hang  in  the  tree,  Love, 
I  '11  pluck  them  all  for  thee,  Love ; 

The  crescent  moon  is  curled,  Love, 
Down  at  the  edge  of  the  world,  Love ; 

I  '11  run  and  bring  it  now,  Love, 
To  crown  thy  gentle  brow,  Love ; 

For  in  my  song 

The  summer  long 

The  stars,  and  moon,  and  night,  Love, 
Are  but  for  thy  delight,  Love ! 

LEO 

i 

OVER  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear  the  barking  of  Leo — 
Leo  the  shaggy,  the  lustrous,  the  giant,  the  gentle  New 
foundland. 


152  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Dark  are  his  eyes  as  the  night,  and  black  is  his  hair  as 

the  midnight ; 
Large  and  slow  is  his  tread  till  he  sees  his  master 

returning, 
Then  how  he  leaps  in  the  air,  with  motion  ponderous, 

frightening ! 
Now  as  I  pass  to  my  work  I  hear  o'er  the  roar  of  the 

city  — 
Far  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  I  hear  the  barking  of 

Leo; 
For  me  he  is  moaning  and  crying,  for  me  in  measure 

sonorous 
He  raises  his  marvelous  voice,  for  me  he  is  wailing  and 

calling. 

ii 
None  can  assuage  his  grief  though  but  for  a  day  is  the 

parting, 
Though  morn  after  morn  't  is  the  same,  though  home 

every  night  comes  his  master, 
Still  will  he  grieve  when  we  sever,  and  wild  will  be  his 

rejoicing 
When  at  night  his  master  returns  and  lays  but  a  hand 

on  his  forehead. 
No  lack  will  there  be  in  the  world  of  faith,  of  love,  and 

devotion, 

No  lack  for  me  and  for  mine,  while  Leo  alone  is  living — 
While  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear  the  barking  of 

Leo. 


LOVE,  ART,  AND  TIME  153 


PART  III 

BROTHERS 

PASSION  is  a  wayward  child, 
Art  his  brother  firm  and  mild. 
Lonely  each 
Doth  fail  to  reach 
Height  of  music,  song,  or  speech. 
If  hand  in  hand  they  sally  forth, 
East  or  west,  or  south  or  north, 
Nought  can  stay  them 
Nor  delay  them. 
Slaves  not  they  of  space  or  time 
In  their  jo'urneyings  sublime. 


LOVE,  ART,  AND  TIME 

ON    A    PICTURE    ENTITLED    "THE   PORTRAIT," 
BY   WILL   H.  LOW 

SWEET  Grecian  girl  who  on  the  sunbright  wall 
Tracest  the  outline  of  thy  lover's  shade, 
While,  on  the  dial  near,  Time's  hand  is  laid 
With  silent  motion  —  fearest  thou,  then,  all  ? 

How  that  one  day  the  light  shall  cease  to  fall 

On  him  who  is  thy  light ;  how  lost,  dismayed, — 
By  Time,  and  Time's  pale  comrade  Death, 

betrayed, — 

Thou  shalt  breathe  on  beneath  the  all-shadowing 
pall! 


154  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Love,  Art,  and  Time,  these  are  the  triple  powers 

That  rule  the  world,  and  shall  for  many  a  morrow — 
Love  that  beseecheth  Art  to  conquer  Time ! 

Bright  is  the  picture,  but,  O  fading  flowers ! 

O  youth  that  passes !  love  that  bringeth  sorrow ! — 
Bright  is  the  picture ;  sad  the  poet's  rhyme. 


THE  DANCERS 

ON  A  PICTURE  ENTITLED  "  SUMMER,"  BY  T.  W.  DEWING 

BEHOLD  these  maidens  in  a  row 
Against  the  birches'  freshening  green ; 
Their  lines  like  music  sway  and  flow ; 
They  move  before  the  emerald  screen 
Like  broidered  figures  dimly  seen 
On  woven  cloths,  in  moony  glow  — 
Gracious,  and  graceful,  and  serene. 
They  hear  the  harp ;  its  lovely  tones 
Each  maiden  in  each  motion  owns, 
As  if  she  were  a  living  note 
Which  from  that  curved  harp  doth  float. 

THE  TWENTY-THIRD  OF  APRIL 

A  LITTLE  English  earth  and  breathed  air 

Made  Shakespeare  the  divine ;  so  is  his  verse 

The  broidered  soil  of  every  blossom  fair ; 

So  doth  his  song  all  sweet  bird-songs  rehearse. 

But  tell  me,  then,  what  wondrous  stuff  did  fashion 
That  part  of  him  which  took  those  wilding  flights 
Among  imagined  worlds ;  whence  the  white  passion 
That  burned  three  centuries  through  the  days  and 
nights ! 


THE  TWELFTH   OF   DECEiMBER  155 

Not  heaven's  four  winds  could  make,  nor  the  round  earth, 
The  soul  wherefrom  the  soul  of  Hamlet  flamed ; 
Nor  anything  of  merely  mortal  birth 

Could  lighten  as  when  Shakespeare's  name  is  named. 
How  was  his  body  bred  we  know  full  well, 
But  that  high  soul's  engendering  who  may  tell ! 


EMMA  LAZARUS 

WHEN  on  thy  bed  of  pain  thou  layest  low 

Daily  we  saw  thy  body  fade  away, 

Nor  could  the  love  wherewith  we  loved  thee  stay 

For  one  dear  hour  the  flesh  borne  down  by  woe ; 
But  as  the  mortal  sank,  with  what  white  glow 

Flamed  thy  eternal  spirit,  night  and  day ; 

Untouched,  unwasted,  though  the  crumbling  clay 

Lay  wrecked  and  ruined !     Ah,  is  it  not  so, 
Dear  poet-comrade,  who  from  sight  hast  gone ; 

Is  it  not  so  that  spirit  hath  a  life 

Death  may  not  conquer  ?     But,  O  dauntless  one ! 
Still  must  we  sorrow.     Heavy  is  the  strife 

And  thou  not  with  us ;  thou  of  the  old  race 

That  with  Jehovah  parleyed,  face  to  face. 


THE  TWELFTH  OF  DECEMBER 

ON  this  day  Browning  died  ? 

Say,  rather :     On  the  tide 
That  throbs  against  those  glorious  palace  walls ; 
That  rises  —  pauses  —  falls 


156  FIVE    BOOKS  OF   SONG 

With  melody  and  myriad- tinted  gleams; 

On  that  enchanted  tide, 

Half  real,  and  half  poured  from  lovely  dreams, 
A  soul  of  Beauty, —  a  white,  rhythmic  flame, — 
Passed  singing  forth  into  the  Eternal  Beauty  whence  it 
came. 


PART  IV 

SHERIDAN 
i 

OUIETLY,  like  a  child 
That  sinks  in  slumber  mild, 

^"^^/ 

No  pain  or  troubled  thought  his  well-earned  peace  to 

mar, 
Sank  into  endless  rest  our  thunderbolt  of  war. 

ii 

Though  his  the  power  to  smite 

Quick  as  the  lightning's  light, — 
His  single  arm  an  army,  and  his  name  a  host, — 
Not  his  the  love  of  blood,  the  warrior's  cruel  boast. 

in 

But  in  the  battle's  flame 
How  glorious  he  came !  — 
Even  like  a  white-combed  wave  that  breaks  and  tears 

the  shore, 
While  wreck  lies  strewn  behind,  and  terror  flies  before 

IV 

'T  was  he, —  his  voice,  his  might, — 
Could  stay  the  panic-flight, 


SHERMAN  157 

Alone  shame  back  the  headlong,  many -leagued  retreat, 
And  turn  to  evening  triumph  morning's  foul  defeat. 


He  was  our  modern  Mars ; 

Yet  firm  his  faith  that  wars 

Ere  long  would  cease  to  vex  the  sad,  ensanguined  earth, 
And  peace  forever  reign,  as  at  Christ's  holy  birth. 

VI 

Blest  land,  in  whose  dark  hour 

Arise  to  loftiest  power 

No  dazzlers  of  the  sword  to  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
But  patriot-soldiers,  true  and  pure  and  high  of  heart ! 

VII 

Of  such  our  chief  of  all ; 

And  he  who  broke  the  wall 

Of  civil  strife  in  twain,  no  more  to  build  or  mend; 
And  he  who  hath  this  day  made  Death  his  faithful  friend 

VIII 

And  now  above  his  tomb 

From  out  the  eternal  gloom 

"  Welcome !  "  his  chieftain's  voice  sounds  o'er  the  can 
non's  knell ; 
And  of  the  three  one  only  stays  to  say  "  Farewell !  " 


SHERMAN 

i 

GLORY  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation 
For  our  captains  who  loved  not  war,  but  fought  for  the 
life  of  the  nation ; 


158  FIVE  BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Who  knew  that,  in  all  the  land,  one  slave  meant  strife, 

not  peace ; 
Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory ;  made  war  that  war 

might  cease. 

ii 
Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  beating  of  muffled 

drums ; 
The  wailing  funeral  dirge,  as  the  flag-wrapped  coffin 

comes. 

Fame  and  honor  and  glory,  and  joy  for  a  noble  soul ; 
For  a  full  and  splendid  life,  and  laureled  rest  at  the  goal. 

in 
Glory  and  honor  and  fame ;  the  pomp  that  a  soldier 

prizes; 
The  league-long  waving  line  as  the  marching  falls  and 

rises ; 
Rumbling  of  caissons  and  guns ;  the  clatter  of  horses' 

feet, 
And  a  million  awe-struck  faces  far  down  the  waiting 

street. 

IV 

But  better  than  martial  woe,  and  the  pageant  of  civic 

sorrow ; 
Better  than  praise  of  to-day,  or  the  statue  we  build 

to-morrow ; 

Better  than  honor  and  glory,  and  history's  iron  pen, 
Was  the  thought  of  duty  done  and  the  love  of  his 

fellowmen. 


PRO   PATRIA  159 

PRO  PATRIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FAITHFUL  CHAPLAIN  1 

I 

EREWHILE  I  sang  the  praise  of  them  whose  lustrous 
names 

Flashed  in  war's  dreadful  flames ; 
Who  rose  in  glory,  and  in  splendor,  and  in  might 

To  fame's  sequestered  height. 


Honor  to  all,  for  each  his  honors  meekly  carried, 

Nor  e'er  the  conquered  harried : 
All  honor,  for  they  sought  alone  to  serve  the  state  — 

Not  merely  to  be  great. 

in 

Yes,  while  the  glorious  past  our  grateful  memory 
craves, 

And  while  yon  bright  flag  waves, 
Lincoln,  Grant,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  the  peerless  four, 

Shall  live  forever  more ; 

IV 

Shall  shine  the  eternal  stars  of  stern  and  loyal  love, 

All  other  stars  above; 
The  imperial  nation  they  made  one,  at  last,  and  free, 

Their  monument  shall  be. 

1  The  chaplain  referred  to  lost  his  life  through  taking  upon 
himself  the  visitation  of  the  army  smallpox  hospital,  near  the 
camp  of  his  regiment,  the  4Oth  New  York  Volunteers,  at  Brandy 
Station,  Virginia,  April,  1864. 


160  FIVE   BOOKS   OF  SONG 


Ah  yes !  but  ne'er  may  we  forget  the  praise  to  sound 

Of  the  brave  souls  that  found 

Death  in  the  myriad  ranks,  'mid  blood,  and  groans,  and 
stenches  — 

Tombs  in  the  abhorred  trenches. 

VI 

Comrades !  To-day  a  tear- wet  garland  I  would  bring  — 

But  one  song  let  me  sing, 
For  one  sole  hero  of  my  heart  and  desolate  home ; 

Come  with  me,  Comrades,  come ! 

VII 

Bring  your  glad  flowers,  your  flags,  for  this  one  humble 

grave; 

For,  Soldiers,  he  was  brave ! 
Though  fell  not  he  before  the  cannon's  thunderous 

breath, 
Yet  noble  was  his  death. 

VIII 

True  soldier  of  his  country  and  the  sacred  cross  — 

He  counted  gain,  not  loss, 
Perils  and  nameless  horrors  of  the  embattled  field, 

While  he  had  help  to  yield. 

IX 

But  not  where  'mid  wild  cheers  the  awful  battle  broke, — 

A  hell  of  fire  and  smoke, — 
He  to  heroic  death  went  forth  with  soul  elate ; 

Harder  his  lonely  fate. 


PRO   P ATRIA  161 


Searching  where  most  was  needed,  worst  of  all  endured, 

Sufferers  he  found  immured, — 
Tented  apart  because  of  fatal,  foul  disease, — 

Balm  brought  he  unto  these ; 

XI 

Celestial  balm,  the  spirit's  holy  ministry, 

He  brought,  and  only  he ; 

Where  men  who  blanched  not  at  the  battle's  shell  and 
shot 

Trembled,  and  entered  not. 

XII 

Yet  life  to  him  was  oh,  most  dear, —  home,  children, 
wife, — 

But,  dearer  still  than  life, 
Duty  —  that  passion  of  the  soul  which  from  the  sod 

Alone  lifts  man  to  God. 

XIII 

The  pest-house  entering  fearless — stricken  he  fearless  fell, 

Knowing  that  all  was  well; 

The  high,  mysterious  Power  whereof  mankind  has 
dreamed 

To  him  not  distant  seemed. 

XIV 

So  nobly  died  this  unknown  hero  of  the  war ; 

And  heroes,  near  and  far, 
Sleep  now  in  graves  like  his  unfamed  in  song  or  story  — 

But  theirs  is  more  than  glory ! 


162  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

(REUNION  AT  GETTYSBURG  TWENTY-FIVE  YEARS  AFTER 
THE  BATTLE) 

SHADE  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day ! 
Here  the  long,  dread  midsummer  battle  roared, 
And  brother  in  brother  plunged  the  accursed  sword ;  — 
Here  foe  meets  foe  once  more  in  proud  array 

Yet  not  as  once  to  harry  and  to  slay 

But  to  strike  hands,  and  with  sublime  accord 
Weep  tears  heroic  for  the  souls  that  soared 
Quick  from  earth's  carnage  to  the  starry  way. 

Each  fought  for  what  he  deemed  the  people's  good, 
And  proved  his  bravery  with  his  offered  life, 
And  sealed  his  honor  with  his  outpoured  blood ; 

But  the  Eternal  did  direct  the  strife, 
And  on  this  sacred  field  one  patriot  host 
Now  calls  thee  father, —  dear,  majestic  ghost ! 


FAILURE    AND   SUCCESS 

HE  fails  who  climbs  to  power  and  place 
Up  the  pathway  of  disgrace. 
He  fails  not  who  makes  truth  his  cause, 
Nor  bends  to  win  the  crowd's  applause. 
He  fails  not,  he  who  stakes  his  all 
Upon  the  right,  and  dares  to  fall ;  — 
What  though  the  living  bless  or  blame. 
For  him  the  long  success  of  fame. 


THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE  163 

J.    R.    L. 
ON   HIS    BIRTHDAY 

NAVIES  nor  armies  can  exalt  the  state ; 

Millions  of  men,  nor  coined  wealth  untold ; 

Down  to  the  pit  may  sink  a  land  of  gold ; 
But  one  great  name  can  make  a  country  great. 

NAPOLEON 

A  SOUL  inhuman  ?  No,  but  human  all, 
If  human  is  each  passion  man  has  known : 
Scorn,  hate,  and  love ;  the  lust  of  empire,  grown 
To  such  a  height  as  did  the  world  appal ;  — 

If  the  same  human  soul  may  soar  and  crawl 
As  soared  his  and  as  crawled ;  if  to  be  shown 
The  utmost  heaven  and  hell ;  if  to  atone 
For  fame  consummate  by  colossal  fall ;  — 

If  human  't  is  to  see  friend,  partizan 
Turn,  dastardly,  the  imperial  hand  to  tear 
That  fed  them ;  if  through  gnawing  years  to  plan 

Vengeance,  and  space  to  breathe  the  unfettered  air  — 
No  alien  from  his  kind  but  very  man 
Slow  perished  on  that  island  of  despair. 

THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE 

PART    I 

THE  White  Tsar's  people  cry : 

"  Thou  God  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 

Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 

Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening ; 


164  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Hold,  Lord  God,  hold, 

Hold  Thy  hand  lest  we  curse  Thee  and  die." 

The  White  Tsar's  people  pray : 

"  Thou  God  of  the  South  and  the  North, 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  bleeding; 

T  is  Christ,  't  is  Thy  Son  interceding ; 

Forth,  Lord,  come  forth ! 

Bid  the  slayer  no  longer  slay." 

The  White  Tsar's  people  call- 

Aloud  to  the  skies  of  lead : 

"  We  are  slaves,  not  freemen ; 

Ourselves,  our  children,  our  women  — 

Dead,  we  are  dead, 

Though  we  breathe,  we  are  dead  men  all. 

"  Blame  not  if  we  misprize  thee 

Who  can,  but  will  not  draw  near. 

'T  is  Thou  who  hast  made  us  — 

Not  Thou,  dread  God,  to  upbraid  us. 

Hear,  Lord  God,  hear ! 

Lest  we  whom  Thou  madest  despise  Thee." 

PART    II 

Then  answered  the  most  high  God, 

Lord  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 

Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 

Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening : 

"  Bold,  yea,  too  bold, 

Whom  I  wrought  from  the  air  and  the  clod ! 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  from  me 
Are  those  ears  so  quick  to  hear 


THE   WHITE  TSAR'S   PEOPLE  165 

The  passion  and  anguish 

Of  your  sisters,  your  children  who  languish 

Near  ?     Ah,  not  near  — 

Far  off  by  the  uttermost  sea ! 

"  Who  gave  ye  your  hearts  to  bleed 

And  brains  to  weave  and  to  plan  ? 

Why  call  ye  on  heaven  — 

'T  is  the  earth  that  to  you  is  given ! 

Plead,  ye  may  plead, 

But  for  man  I  work  through  man. 

"  Who  gave  ye  a  voice  to  utter 

Your  tale  to  the  wind  and  the  sea  ? 

One  word  well  spoken 

And  the  iron  gates  are  broken  ! 

From  me,  yea,  from  me 

The  word  that  ye  will  not  mutter. 

"  I  love  not  murder  but  ruth. 

Begone  from  my  sight  ye  who  take 

The  knife  of  the  coward  — 

Even  ye  who  by  heaven  were  dowered ! 

Wake  ye,  O  wake, 

And  strike  with  the  sword  of  Truth ! 

"  Fear  ye  lest  I  misprize  ye  — 

I  who  fashioned  not  brutes,  but  men. 

After  the  lightning 

And  darkness  —  the  dawn's  red  brightening ! 

Men !     Be  ye  men ! 

Lest  I  who  made  ye  despise  ye ! " 


166  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

PART  V 

HIDE  NOT  THY  HEART 
i 

THIS  is  my  creed, 
This  be  my  deed : 
"  Hide  not  thy  heart !  " 
Soon  we  depart ; 
Mortals  are  all ; 
A  breath,  then  the  pall ; 
A  flash  on  the  dark  — 
All  's  done  —  stiff  and  stark. 
No  time  for  a  lie ; 
The  truth,  and  then  die. 
Hide  not  thy  heart ! 

ii 

Forth  with  thy  thought ! 
Soon  't  will  be  nought, 
And  thou  in  thy  tomb. 
Now  is  air,  now  is  room. 
Down  with  false  shame ; 
Reck  not  of  fame ; 
Dread  not  man's  spite; 
Quench  not  thy  light. 
This  be  thy  creed, 
This  be  thy  deed : 
"  Hide  not  thy  heart !  " 

in 

If  God  is,  he  made 
Sunshine  and  shade, 


"WHITE,  PILLARED   NECK"  167 

Heaven  and  hell ; 
This  we  know  well. 
Dost  thou  believe  ? 
Do  not  deceive ; 
Scorn  not  thy  faith  — 
If  'tis  a  wraith, 
Soon  it  will  fly. 
Thou,  who  must  die, 

Hide  not  thy  heart ! 

\ 

IV 

This  is  my  creed ; 
This  be  my  deed : 
Faith,  or  a  doubt, 
I  shall  speak  out 
And  hide  not  my  heart. 

"THE  POET  FROM   HIS  OWN  SORROW" 
THE  poet  from  his  own  sorrow 

Poured  forth  a  love-sad  song. 
A  stranger,  on  the  morrow, 

Drew  near,  with  a  look  of  wrong, 
And  said :    "  Beneath  its  pall 

I  have  hidden  my  heart  in  vain  — 
To  the  world  thou  hast  sung  it  all ! 

Who  told  thee  my  secret  pain  ?  " 

"WHITE,  PILLARED    NECK" 

i 
WHITE,  pillared  neck;  a  brow  to  make  men  quake; 

A  woman's  perfect  form ; 
Like  some  cool  marble,  should  that  wake, 

Breathe,  and  be  warm. 


1 68  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

II 
A  shape,  a  mind,  a  heart, 

Of  womanhood  the  whole : 
.  Her  breath,  her  smile,  her  touch,  her  art, 
All  —  save  her  soul. 


"GREAT  NATURE  IS  AN  ARMY  GAY" 

GREAT  nature  is  an  army  gay, 
Resistless  marching  on  its  way ; 
I  hear  the  bugles  clear  and  sweet, 
I  hear  the  tread  of  million  feet. 

Across  the  plain  I  see  it  pour; 
It  tramples  down  the  waving  grass; 
Within  the  echoing  mountain-pass 
I  hear  a  thousand  cannon  roar. 

It  swarms  within  my  garden  gate ; 
My  deepest  well  it  drinketh  dry. 
It  doth  not  rest;  it  doth  not  wait; 
By  night  and  day  it  sweepeth  by ; 
Ceaseless  it  marches  by  my  door; 
It  heeds  me  not,  though  I  implore. 
I  know  not  whence  it  comes,  nor  where 
It  goes.     For  me  it  doth  not  care  — 
Whether  I  starve,  or  eat,  or  sleep, 
Or  live,  or  die,  or  sing,  or  weep. 
And  now  the  banners  all  are  bright, 
Now  torn  and  blackened  by  the  fight. 
Sometimes  its  laughter  shakes  the  sky, 
Sometimes  the  groans  of  those  who  die. 
Still  through  the  night  and  through  the  livelong  day 
The  infinite  army  marches  on  its  remorseless  way. 


THE   PRISONER'S   THOUGHT  169 

"LIFE  IS  THE  COST" 
i 

LIFE  is  the  cost. 
Behold  yon  tower, 
That  heavenward  lifts 
To  the  cloudy  drifts  — 
Like  a  flame,  like  a  flower ! 
What  lightness,  what  grace, 
What  a  dream  of  power ! 
One  last  endeavor 
One  stone  to  place  — 
And  it  stands  forever. 

ii 

A  slip,  a  fall ; 
A  cry,  a  call; 
Turn  away,  all  's  done. 
Stands  the  tower  in  the  sun 
Forever  and  a  day. 
On  the  pavement  below 
The  crimson  stain 
Will  be  worn  away 
In  the  ebb  and  flow ; 
The  tower  will  remain. 
Life  is  the  cost. 

THE    PRISONER'S  THOUGHT 

i 

Is  'T  I  for  whom  the  law's  brute  penalty 
Was  made ;  to  whom  the  law  once  seemed  a  power 
Far  off  and  not  to  be  concerned  withal  ? 
Am  I  indeed  this  rank  and  noisome  thing 


1 70  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Fit  for  such  handling ;  to  be  pushed  aside 

Into  a  human,  foul  receptacle, 

A  fetid  compost  of  dull,  festering  crime 

Even  not  meet  for  nutriment  of  earth, 

But  only  here  to  rot  in  memories 

Of  my  own  shame,  and  shame  of  other  men? 

Here  let  me  rot  then — there  's  a  taste  one  has 
For  just  the  best  of  all  things,  even  of  sin. 
He  's  a  poor  devil  who  in  deepest  hell 
Knows  no  keen  relish  for  the  worst  that  is,— 
The  very  acme  of  intensest  pain, — 
Nor  smacks  charred  lips  at  thoughts  of  some  dear  crime 
The  sweetest,  deadliest,  damnablest  of  all. 
Sometimes  I  hug  that  hellish  happiness ; 
And  then  a  loathing  falls  upon  my  soul 
For  what  I  was,  and  am,  and  still  must  be. 

ii 

And  this  same  I  —  there  comes  to  me  a  time, 
And  often  comes,  when  all  this  slips  away; 
Stays  not  one  stain,  nor  scar,  nor  fatal  hurt. 
Perhaps  it  is  a  sort  of  waking  dream ; 
But  if  I  dream,  I  'm  breathing  audibly, 
I  feel  my  pulse  beat,  hear  the  talk  and  tread 
Down  these  long  corridors ;  see  the  barred  blue 
Of  the  cell's  window,  hear  a  singing  bird  — 
Yes,  O  my  God,  I  hear  a  singing  bird, 
Such  as  I  heard  in  childhood.     Now,  you  think, 
I  dream  I  am  a  child  once  more.     Not  so ; 
I  am  just  what  I  am;  a  man  in  prison — 
(Damn  them !  I  'm  innocent  of  what  they  swore 
And  proved  —  with  cant,  and  well-paid  perjury ; 
Though  other  crimes,  they  know  not  of,  I  did)  — 


THE   CONDEMNED  171 

But  suddenly  my  soul  is  pure  as  yours ; 

My  thoughts  as  clean ;  my  spirit  is  as  free 

As  any  man's,  or  any  purest  woman's. 

I  think  as  justly,  as  for  instance,  sir, 

You  think ;  as  circumspectly,  wisely,  freely, 

As  does  my  jolly  keeper,  or  the  smith 

Who  enters  once  a  day  to  try  the  bars 

That  shut  my  body  out  from  freedom  !     Not 

My  soul.     Why,  this  my  soul  has  thoughts  that  strike 

Into  the  very  heights  and  depths  of  Heaven. 

You  '11  think  it  passing  strange,  good  friend,  no  doubt. 

'T  is  strange;  but  here  's  a  further  mystery: 

Think  you  that  in  some  other  living  state 

After  what  we  call  death, — or  in  this  life, — 

The  thinking  part  of  us  we  name  the  soul 

Can  ever  get  away  from  its  old  self; 

Can  wash  the  earth  all  off  from  it,  that  so 

It  really  will  be,  what  I  sometimes  seem  — 

As  sinless  as  a  little  child  at  birth, 

With  all  a  woman's  love  for  all  things  pure, 

And  all  a  grown  man's  strength  to  do  the  right  ? 


THE    CONDEMNED 

THOU  art  not  fit  to  die  ? —  Why  not  ? 
The  fairest  body  ripes  to  rot. 
Thy  soul  ?     Oh,  why  not  let  it  go 
Free  from  the  flesh  that  drags  it  low ! 
To  die !     Poor  wretch,  do  not  deceive 
Thyself —  who  art  not  fit  to  live. 


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"SOW  THOU   SORROW" 

Sow  thou  sorrow  and  thou  shalt  reap  it ; 
Sow  thou  joy  and  thou  shalt  keep  it. 

TEMPTATION 

NOT  alone  in  pain  and  gloom, 
Does  the  abhorred  tempter  come ; 
Not  in  light  alone  and  pleasure 
Proffers  he  the  poisoned  measure. 

When  the  soul  doth  rise 
Nearest  to  its  native  skies, 
There  the  exalted  spirit  finds 
Borne  upon  the  heavenly  winds 
Satan,  in  an  angel's  guise, 
With  voice  divine  and  innocent  eyes. 

A  MIDSUMMER    MEDITATION 

i 

FACE  once  the  thought :     This  piled  up  sky  of  cloud, 
Blue  vastness,  and  white  vastness  steeped  in  light, — 
Struck  through  with  light,  that  centers  in  the  sun, — 
This  blue  of  waves  below  that  meets  blue  sky ; 
But  a  white,  trembling  shore  between,  that  sweeps 
The  circle  of  the  bay;  this  green  of  woods, 
And  keener  green  of  new-mown,  grassy  fields ; 
This  ceaseless,  leaf-like  rustle  of  the  waves ; 
These  shining,  billowy  tree-tops ;  songs  of  birds ; 
Strong  scent  of  seaweed,  mixed  with  smell  of  pines ; 
Face  once  this  thought :     Thy  spirit  that  looks  forth, 
That  breathes  the  light,  and  life,  and  joy  of  all, 


VISIONS  173 

Shall  cease,  but  not  the  things  that  pleasure  thee ; 
They  shall  endure  for  eyes  like  thine,  but  not 
For  thine  own  eyes ;  for  human  hearts  like  thine, 
But  not  for  thine  own  heart,  all  dust  and  dead. 

ii 

Face  it,  O  Spirit,  then  look  up  once  more, 
Brave  conqueror  of  dull  mortality! 
Look  up  and  be  a  part  of  all  thou  see'st 
Ocean  and  earth  and  miracle  of  sky, 
All  that  thou  see'st,  thou  art,  and  without  thee 
Were  nothing.     Thou,  a  god,  dost  recreate 
The  whole ;  breathing  thy  soul  in  all,  till  all 
Is  one  wide  world  made  perfect  at  thy  touch. 
And  know  that  thou,  who  darest  a  world  create, 
Art  one  with  the  Almighty,  son  to  sire  — 
Of  his  eternity  a  quenchless  spark. 

"AS   DOTH   THE    BIRD" 

As  doth  the  bird,  on  outstretched  pinions,  dare 

The  dread  abysm's  viewless  air, 

Take  thou,  my  soul,  thy  fearless  flight 

Into  the  void  and  dark  of  death's  eternal  night. 

IN  THE  CATSKILLS. 

VISIONS 
i 

CAST  into  the  pit 
Of  lonely  sorrow, 
The  suffering  soul, 
Looking  aloft, 


174  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Sees  with  amaze 
In  the  daytime  sky 
The  shine  of  stars. 


CAME  to  me  once 
In  the  seething  town 
A  form  of  beauty, 
Innocent  brow, 
And  soul  of  youth ; 
Deep,  sweet  eyes, 
An  angel's  gaze, 
And  rose-leaf  lips 
That  murmured  low : 
"  I,  lost,  forgotten, 
Long  left,  long  dead, 
I  am  thy  sin." 


in 

WITH  full-toned  beat 
Of  the  happy  heart, 
In  a  day  of  peace, 
In  an  hour  of  joy, 
Once  in  my  life 
And  only  once, 
Of  a  sudden,  I  saw, 
The  end  of  all ! 
—  Death ! 


THE   PASSING  OF   CHRIST  175 

WITH   A   CROSS   OF   IMMORTELLES 

WHEN  Christ  cried :  "  It  is  done !  " 

The  face  of  a  small  red  flower, 
Looking  up  to  the  suffering  One, 

Turned  pale  with  love  and  pain, 
And  never  shone  red  again. 

In  memory  of  that  hour 
Which  holds  the  secret  of  bliss ; 

And  the  darker  secret  of  sorrow 

That  shall  come  to  each,  to-morrow ; 
Sweet  friend,  I  send  you  this. 

THE    PASSING   OF   CHRIST 

i 

O  MAN  of  light  and  lore  ! 

Do  you  mean  that  in  our  day 

The  Christ  hath  passed  away ; 

That  nothing  now  is  divine 

In  the  fierce  rays  that  shine 

Through  every  cranny  and  thought ; 

That  Christ  as  he  once  was  taught 

Shall  be  the  Christ  no  more  ? 

That  the  Hope  and  Saviour  of  men 

Shall  be  seen  no  more  again ; 

That,  miracles  being  done, 

Gone  is  the  Holy  One  ? 

And  thus,  you  hold,  this  Christ 

For  the  past  alone  sufficed ; 

From  the  throne  of  the  hearts  of  the  world 

The  Son  of  God  shall  be  hurled, 


176  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

And  henceforth  must  be  sought 

New  prophets  and  kings  of  thought ; 

That  the  tenderest,  truest  word 

The  heart  of  sorrow  hath  heard 

Shall  sound  no  more  upon  earth  ; 

That  he  who  hath  made  of  birth 

A  dread  and  holy  rite  ; 

Who  hath  brought  to  the  eyes  of  death 

A  vision  of  heavenly  light, 

Shall  fade  with  our  failing  faith ;  — 

He  who  saw  in  children's  eyes 

Eternal  paradise ; 

Who  looked  through  shame  and  sin 

At  the  sanctity  within ; 

Whose  memory,  since  he  died, 

The  earth  hath  sanctified  — 

Hath  been  the  stay  and  the  hold 

Of  millions  of  lives  untold, 

And  the  world  on  its  upward  path 

Hath  led  from  crime  and  wrath  ;  — 

You  say  that  this  Christ  hath  passed 

And  we  cannot  hold  him  fast  ? 

ii 

Ah  no  !     If  the  Christ  you  mean 
Shall  pass  from  this  time,  this  scene, 
These  hearts,  these  lives  of  ours, 
'T  is  but  as  the  summer  flowers 
Pass,  but  return  again, 
To  gladden  a  world  of  men. 
For  he, —  the  only,  the  true, — 
In  each  age,  in  each  waiting  heart, 
Leaps  into  life  anew ; 
Though  he  pass,  he  shall  not  depart. 


THE   PASSING  OF  CHRIST  177 

Behold  him  now  where  he  comes  ! 

Not  the  Christ  of  our  subtile  creeds, 

But  the  lord  of  our  hearts,  of  our  homes, 

Of  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  needs ; 

The  brother  of  want  and  blame, 

The  lover  of  women  and  men, 

With  a  love  that  puts  to  shame 

All  passions  of  mortal  ken ;  — 

Yet  of  all  of  woman  born 

His  is  the  scorn  of  scorn  ; 

Before  whose  face  do  fly 

Lies,  and  the  love  of  a  lie ; 

Who  from  the  temple  of  God, 

And  the  sacred  place  of  laws, 

Drives  forth,  with  smiting  rod, 

The  herds  of  ravening  maws. 

'T  is  he,  as  none  other  can, 

Makes  free  the  spirit  of  man, 

And  speaks,  in  darkest  night, 

One  word  of  awful  light 

That  strikes  through  the  dreadful  pain 

Of  life,  a  reason  sane  — 

That  word  divine  which  brought 

The  universe  from  nought. 

\ 
Ah  no,  thou  life  of  the  heart, 

Never  shalt  thou  depart ! 
Not  till  the  leaven  of  God 
Shall  lighten  each  human  clod ; 
Not  till  the  world  shall  climb 
To  thy  height  serene,  sublime, 
Shall  the  Christ  who  enters  our  door 
Pass  to  return  no  more. 


178  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

CREDO 

How  easily  my  neighbor  chants  his  creed, 

Kneeling  beside  me  in  the  House  of  God. 

His  "  I  believe  "  he  chants,  and  "  I  believe," 

With  cheerful  iteration  and  consent  — 

Watching  meantime  the  white,  slow  sunbeam  move 

Across  the  aisle,  or  listening  to  the  bird 

Whose  free,  wild  song  sounds  through  the  open  door. 

Thou  God  supreme, —  I  too,  I  too,  believe ' 
But  oh !  forgive  if  this  one  human  word, 
Binding  the  deep  and  breathless  thought  of  thee 
And  my  own  conscience  with  an  iron  band, 
Stick  in  my  throat.     I  cannot  say  it,  thus  — 
This  "  I  believe  "  that  doth  thyself  obscure ; 
This  rod  to  smite;  this  barrier;  this  blot 
On  thy  most  unimaginable  face 
\  And  soul  of  majesty. 

'T  is  not  man's  faith 

In  thee  that  he  proclaims  in  echoed  phrase, 
But  faith  in  man ;  faith  not  in  thine  own  Christ, 
But  in  another  man's  dim  thought  of  him. 

Christ  of  Judea,  look  thou  in  my  heart ! 

Do  I  not  love  thee,  look  to  thee,  in  thee 

Alone  have  faith  of  all  the  sons  of  men  — 

Faith  deepening  with  the  weight  and  woe  of  years. 

Pure  soul  and  tenderest  of  all  that  came 
Into  this  world  of  sorrow,  hear  my  prayer : 

Lead  me,  yea  lead  me  deeper  into  life, 
This  suffering,  human  life  wherein  thou  liv'st 


NON  SINE  DOLORE  179 

And  breathest  still,  and  hold'st  thy  way  divine. 
'T  is  here,  O  pitying  Christ,  where  thee  I  seek, 
Here  where  the  strife  is  fiercest ;  where  the  sun 
Beats  down  upon  the  highway  thronged  with  men, 
And  in  the  raging  mart.     Oh !  deeper  lead 
My  soul  into  the  living  world  of  souls 
Where  thou  dost  move. 

'But  lead  me,  Man  Divine, 
Where'er  thou  wilFst,  only  that  I  may  find 
At  the  long  journey's  end  thy  image  there, 
And  grow  more  like  to  it.    For  art  not  thou 
The  human  shadow  of  the  infinite  Love 
That  made  and  fills  the  endless  universe ! 
The  very  Word  of  him,  the  unseen,  unknown 
Eternal  Good  that  rules  the  summer  flower 
And  all  the  worlds  that  people  starry  space ! 

NON   SINE    DOLORE 

i 

WHAT,  then,  is  Life, —  what  Death  ? 
Thus  the  Answerer  saith ; 
O  faithless  mortal,  bend  thy  head  and  listen : 

Down  o'er  the  vibrant  strings, 

That  thrill,  and  moan,  and  mourn,  and  glisten, 

The  Master  draws  his  bow. 

A  voiceless  pause ;  then  upward,  see,  it  springs, 

Free  as  a  bird  with  unimprisoned  wings ! 

In  twain  the  chord  was  cloven, 

While,  shaken  with  woe, 

With  breaks  of  instant  joy  all  interwoven, 

Piercing  the  heart  with  lyric  knife, 


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On,  on  the  ceaseless  music  sings, 

Restless,  intense,  serene; — 

Life  is  the  downward  stroke ;  the  upward,  Life ; 

Death  but  the  pause  between. 

ii 

Then  spake  the  Questioner :    If 't  were  only  this, 
Ah,  who  could  face  the  abyss 
That  plunges  steep  athwart  each  human  breath  ? 
If  the  new  birth  of  Death 
Meant  only  more  of  Life  as  mortals  know  it, 
What  priestly  balm,  what  song  of  highest  poet, 
Could  heal  one  sentient  soul's  immitigable  pain  ? 
All,  all  were  vain ! 

If,  having  soared  pure  spirit  at  the  last, 
Free  from  the  impertinence  and  warp  of  flesh, 
We  find  half  joy,  half  pain,  on  every  blast; 
Are  caught  again  in  closer-woven  mesh  — 
Ah !  who  would  care  to  die 

From  out  these  fields  and  hills,  and  this  familiar  sky ; 
These  firm,  sure  hands  that  compass  us,  this  dear 
humanity  ? 

in 

Again  the  Answerer  saith : 
O  ye  of  little  faith, 
Shall,  then,  the  spirit  prove  craven, 
And  Death's  divine  deliverance  but  give 
A  summer  rest  and  haven  ? 

By  all  most  noble  in  us,  by  the  light  that  streams 
Into  our  waking  dreams, 
Ah,  we  who  know  what  Life  is,  let  us  live ! 
Clearer  and  freer,  who  shall  doubt  ? 
Something  of  dust  and  darkness  cast  forever  out ; 


NON  SINE  DOLORE  181 

But  Life,  still  Life,  that  leads  to  higher  Life, 
Even  though  the  highest  be  not  free  from  the  immortal 
strife. 

The  highest !   Soul  of  man,  oh,  be  thou  bold, 
And  to  the  brink  of  thought  draw  near,  behold ! 
Where,  on  the  earth's  green  sod, 
Where,  where  in  all  the  universe  of  God, 
Hath  strife  forever  ceased  ? 

When  hath  not  some  great  orb  flashed  into  space 
The  terror  of  its  doom  ?     When  hath  no  human  face 
Turned  earthward  in  despair, 
For  that  some  horrid  sin  had  stamped  its  image  there  ? 

If  at  our  passing  Life  be  Life  increased, 
And  we  ourselves  flame  pure  unfettered  soul, 
Like  the  Eternal  Power  that  made  the  whole 
And  lives  in  all  he  made 

From  shore  of  matter  to  the  unknown  spirit  shore ; 
If,  sire  to  son,  and  tree  to  limb, 
Cycle  on  countless  cycle  more  and  more 
We  grow  to  be  like  him ; 
If  he  lives  on,  serene  and  unafraid, 
Through  all  his  light,  his  love,  his  living  thought, 
One  with  the  sufferer,  be  it  soul  or  star; 
If  he  escape  not  pain,  what  beings  that  are 
Can  e'er  escape  while  Life  leads  on  and  up  the  unseen 

way  and  far  ? 

If  he  escape  not,  by  whom  all  was  wrought. 
Then  shall  not  we, — 

Whate'er  of  godlike  solace  still  may  be, — 
For  in  all  worlds  there  is  no  Life  without  a  pang,  and 

can  be  nought. 


l82  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

No  Life  without  a  pang  !    It  were  not  Life, 

If  ended  were  the  strife  — 

Man  were  not  man,  nor  God  were  truly  God ! 

See  from  the  sod 

The  lark  thrill  skyward  in  an  arrow  of  song : 
Even  so  from  pain  and  wrong 
Upsprings  the  exultant  spirit,  wild  and  free. 
He  knows  not  all  the  joy  of  liberty 
Who  never  yet  was  crushed  'neath  heavy  woe. 
He  doth  not  know, 
Nor  can,  the  bliss  of  being  brave 
Who  never  hath  faced  death,  nor  with  unquailing  eye 
hath  measured  his  own  grave. 

Courage,  and  pity,  and  divinest  scorn  — 
Self-scorn,  self-pity,  and  high  courage  of  the  soul ; 
The  passion  for  the  goal ; 

The  strength  to  never  yield  though  all  be  lost  — 
All  these  are  born 

Of  endless  strife ;  this  is  the  eternal  cost 
Of  every  lovely  thought  that  through  the  portal 
Of  human  minds  doth  pass  with  following  light. 
Blanch  not,  O  trembling  mortal ! 
But  with  extreme  and  terrible  delight 
Know  thou  the  truth, 
Nor  let  thy  heart  be  heavy  with  false  ruth. 

No  passing  burden  is  our  earthly  sorrow 
That  shall  depart  in  some  mysterious  morrow. 
'T  is  His  one  universe  where'er  we  are  — 
One  changeless  law  from  sun  to  viewless  star. 
Were  sorrow  evil  here,  evil  it  were  forever, 
Beyond  the  scope  and  help  of  our  most  keen  endeavor. 

God  doth  not  dote, 


ODE  183 

His  everlasting  purpose  shall  not  fail. 

Here  where  our  ears  are  weary  with  the  wail 

And  weeping  of  the  sufferers;  there  where  the  Pleiads 

float  — 

Here,  there,  forever,  pain  most  dread  and  dire 
Doth  bring  the  intensest  bliss,  the  dearest  and  most  sure. 
'T  is  not  from  Life  aside,  it  doth  endure 
Deep  in  the  secret  heart  of  all  existence. 
It  is  the  inward  fire, 
The  heavenly  urge,  and  the  divine  insistence. 

Uplift  thine  eyes,  O  Questioner,  from  the  sod ! 
It  were  no  longer  Life, 
If  ended  were  the  strife ; 
Man  were  not  man,  God  were  not  truly  God. 


PART  VI 


ODE 

Read  before  the  Society  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  Harvard  University. 
June  26,  1890. 


IN  the  white  midday's  full  imperious  show 
What  glorious  colors  hide  from  human  sight ! 
But  in  the  breathing  pause  'twixt  day  and  night 
Forth  stream  those  prisoned  splendors,  glow  on  glow ; 
Like  billows  on  they  pour 
And  beat  against  the  shore 
Of  cloud-wrought  cliffs  high  as  the  utmost  dome, 
To  die  in  purple  waves  that  break  on  dawns  to  come. 


1 84  FIVE   BOOKS  OF  SONG 

II 

Divine,  divine !    Oh,  breathe  no  earthlier  word ! 
Behold  the  western  heavens  how  swift  they  flame 
With  hues  that  bring  to  mortal  language  shame ; 
Swelling  and  pulsing  like  deep  music  heard 
On  sacred  summer  eves 
When  the  loud  organ  grieves 
And  thrills  with  lyric  life  the  incensed  air, 
While  'mid  the  pillared  gloom  the  people  bow  in  prayer. 

in 

Now  is  it  some  huge  bird  with  monstrous  vans 
That  through  the  sunset  plies  its  shadowy  way, 
Catching  on  outstretched  pinions  the  last  play 
Of  failing  tint  celestial !    See !  it  spans 
Darkly  the  fading  west, 
And  now  its  beamy  crest 
Follows  from  sight  the  glittering,  golden  sun ; 
And  now  one  mighty  wing-beat  more,  and  all  is  done. 

IV 

But  in  those  skyey  spaces  what  dread  change ! 
Thus  have  we  seen  the  mortal  turn  immortal ; 
So  doth  the  day's  soul  die,  as  through  death's  portal 
The  soul  of  man  takes  up  its  heavenward  range. 
A  million  orbs  endue 
The  unfathomable  blue  — 
Till,  the  long  miracle  of  night  withdrawn, 
The  world  beholds  once  more  the  miracle  of  dawn. 

v 
Dawn,  eve,  and  night,  the  iridescent  seas, 

Bright  moon,  enlightening  sun,  and  quivering  stars, 
The  midnight  rose  whose  petals  are  the  bars 


ODE  185 

Of  Boreal  lights,  the  pomp  of  autumn  trees, 

The  pearl  of  curved  shells, 

The  prismy  bow  that  swells 

'Gainst  stormy  skies — these  witness,  these  are  sign 
Of  thee,  O  spirit  of  Beauty,  eternal  and  divine ! 

VI 

And  fairer  still  than  all, —  chief  sign  of  all, — 
The  naked  loveliness  in  Eden's  bower, 
Whose  flesh  blushed  back  the  tint  of  fruit  and  flower; 
Whose  eye  reflamed  the  starlight;  who  could  call 
Father  and  friend  the  God 
That  plucked  them  from  the  sod ; 
The  Almighty's  image,  and  Creation's  height ; 
Whose  deep  souls  mirrored  clear  the  circling  day  and 
night. 

VII 

Spirit  of  Beauty !  'neath  thy  joyful  spell 

Man  hath  been  ever;  therefore  doth  each  breeze 
Bring  to  his  tranced  ears  glad  melodies, — 
Voices  of  birds,  the  brook's  low,  silvery  bell, — 
Wild  music  manifold, 
Which  he  hath  power  to  hold 
His  own  enchanted  harmonies  among, 
That  echo  round  the  world  the  songs  that  nature  sung. 

VIII 

And  thus  all  Beautiful  in  Holiness 

Doth  Israel  stand  before  the  Eternal  One; 
Striking  his  harp  with  rapt,  angelic  tone, 
Till  tribes  and  nations  the  Unseen  God  confess ; 
Knowing  that  only  where 
His  face  makes  white  the  air 


l86  FIVE  BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Could  such  seraphic  song  have  mortal  birth, 
One  saving  faith  sublime  to  keep  alive  on  earth. 

IX 

And  therefore  with  most  passionate  desire 
And  longing,  man  yearned  ever  to  express 
Thy  majesty,  and  light,  and  loveliness, 
O  Spirit  of  Beauty,  unconsuming  fire ! 
Therefore  by  ancient  Nile 
Rose  the  vast  columned  aisle, 
And  on  the  Athenian  Hill  the  wonder  white 
Whose  shattered  ruins  are  the  world's  supreme  delight. 


So  is  it  that  to  thy  imperial  shore, 
Bright  Italy !  the  generations  fly, 
Even  but  once  to  breathe,  or  e'er  they  die, 
Where  did  a  godlike  race  its  soul  outpour; 
Its  birth  divine  revealing 
On  glorious  wall  and  ceiling, — 
While  dome  and  rhythmic  statue,  Beauty-wrought, 
Declare  all  human  art  is  but  what  Heaven  hath  taught. 

XI 

Fair  Italy !  whose  dread  and  peerless  height 
The  song  is  of  the  awful  Ghibelline  ! 
Poet !  who  'mid  the  threefold  dream  divine 
Didst  follow  Art  and  Love  to  the  Central  Light ! 
Tell  us,  O  Dante !  tell 
What  thou  dost  know  so  well, 
That  horror  and  death  are  but  the  shade  and  foil 
Of  Beauty,  deathless,  godlike,  and  without  assoil. 


ODE  187 

XII 

Spirit  divine !  man  falls  upon  the  sod 

In  awe  of  thee,  in  worship  and  amaze :  — 
Thou  older  than  the  mountains,  or  the  blaze 
Of  sunsets,  or  the  sun ;  thou  old  as  God ; 
As  God  who  did  create 
Long  ere  man  reached  his  state 
All  shapes  of  natural  Beauty  that  men  see, 
And  his  wide  universe  did  dedicate  to  thee. 

XIII 

— Ye  who  bear  on  the  torch  of  living  art 

In  this  new  world, —  saved  for  some  wondrous  fate,- 
Deem  not  that  ye  have  come,  alas,  too  late, 
But  haste  right  forward  with  unfailing  heart ! 
Ye  shall  not  rest  forlorn; 
Behold,  even  now,  the  morn 
Rises  in  splendor  from  the  orient  sea, 
And  the  new  world  shall  greet  a  new  divinity. 

XIV 

Shall  greet,  ah,  who  can  say !  a  nobler  face 
Than  from  the  foam  of  Cytherean  seas : 
Loveliness  lovelier ;  mightier  harmonies 
Of  song  and  color ;  an  intenser  grace ; 
Beauty  that  shall  endure 
Like  Chans,  heavenly-pure ; 
A  Spirit  solemn  as  the  starry  night, 
And  full  as  the  triumphant  dawn  of  golden  light. 


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AFTER-SONG 

TO  ROSAMOND 

RDSE  of  the  world, 
Bloom  of  the  year, 
Birth  of  the  dawn ! 
By  morn's  one  star 
Lighted  to  life !  — 
Thou  and  my  songs 
Come  to  the  day 
Hand  clasped  in  hand. 

Flung  on  this  page 
May  the  glow  of  thy  name 
Back  through  each  song 
Shine  with  the  light 
Drawn  from  the  skies  — 
Thou  birth  of  the  dawn, 
Flower  of  the  morn, 
Rose  of  the  world ! 


THE    GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 


Read  at  the  Annual  Reunion  of  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac,  Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  June  27,  1893. 

/"COMRADES,  the  circle  narrows,  heads  grow  white, 

V^/  As  once  more  by  the  camp-fire's  flaring  light 

We  gather  and  clasp  hands,  as  we  have  done 

These  many,  many  years.     So  long  ago 

A  part  we  were  of  all  that  glorious  show, — 

Stood,  side  by  side,  'neath  the  red  battle-sun, — 

So  long  ago  we  breathed  war's  thunderous  breath, 

Knew  the  white  fury  of  that  life-in-death, 

So  long  ago  that  troubled  joy,  it  seems 

The  valorous  pageant  might  resolve  to  splendid  dreams. 

But  no !     Too  deep  't  is  burned  into  the  brain ! 
As  well  were  lightning-scar  by  summer  rain 
Washed  clean  away,  when  stroke  on  blinding  stroke 
Hath  torn  the  rock,  and  riven  the  blackened  oak. 

How  oft  as  down  these  peaceful  streets  we  pass 
All  vanishes  save,  lo !  the  rutted  grass, 
Wrecked  caissons,  frightened  beasts,  and,  merciful  God ! 
The  piteous  burden  of  the  ensanguined  sod ! 

Yet  not  all  terror  doth  the  memory  save 
From  war's  emblazonry  and  open  grave : 
In  glimpses,  flashing  like  a  meteor's  light, 
We  see  the  army  marching  in  the  night ; 
Or,  look !  a  thousand  tents  gleam  through  the  black ; 
Or,  now,  where  quick-built  camp-fires  flame  and  crack, 


192  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

From  blaze  to  shade  men  stretch  o'erwearied  limbs, 
Chant  songs,  or  wake  the  hills  with  chorused  hymns ; 
Or,  ere  the  dasvn  makes  pale  the  starry  dark, 
The  fiery  signals,  spark  on  trailing  spark, 
Write  on  the  silent  sky  their  still  command, 
While  the  great  army  moves,  as  by  a  single  hand. 

So  LONG  ago  it  seems,  so  long  ago, 
Behold,  our  sons,  grown  men  since  those  great  days, — 
Born  since  the  last  clear  bugle  ceased  to  blow 
Its  summons  down  the  valley ;  since  the  bays 
Shook  with  the  roar  of  fort  and  answering  fleet, — 
Our  very  children  look  into  our  eyes 
And  find  strange  records,  with  a  mute  surprise; 
As  they  some  curious  traveler  might  greet 
Who  kept  far  countries  in  his  musing  mind, 
Beyond  the  weltering  seas,  the  mountain- walls  behind. 

And  yet  it  was  this  land  and  not  another, 
Where  blazed  war's  flames  and  rolled  the  battle-cloud. 
In  all  this  land  there  was  no  home  where  brother, 
Father,  or  son  hurried  not  forth ;  where  bowed 
No  broken-hearted  woman  when  pale  Death 
Laid  his  cold  finger  on  the  loved  one's  breath. 

LIKE  to  a  drama  did  the  scene  unroll  — 
Some  dark,  majestic  drama  of  the  soul, 
Wherein  all  strove  as  actors,  hour  by  hour, 
Yet  breathless  watched  the  whole  swift,  tragic  play. 
Faithful  did  each  his  little  part  essay, 
Urged  to  an  end  unknown  by  one  all-knowing  Power ; 
While  if  the  drama  pauses,  now  and  then, 
On  the  huge  stage,  't  is  for  a  moment  only  — 
Here  at  the  heart  or  in  some  vista  lonely, 


THE  GREAT   REMEMBRANCE  193 

A  single  hero  or  a  million  men, 

And  with  the  tragic  theme  the  world  resounds  again. 

First,  in  the  awful  waiting  came  the  shock, 
The  shame  unbearable,  the  sacred  flag  assailed  — 
Assailed  in  freedom's  name  by  those  who  freedom  mock! 
Ah,  then  the  oath,  to  stand  as  stands  the  rock 
'Gainst  flood  and  tempest,  lest  that  flag  be  trailed 
And  torn,  or  any  star  therefrom  be  lost  — 
The  oath,  murmured  alone,  or  where  the  crowd, 
As  by  a  wind  of  heaven  swept  and  tost, 
Passioned  its  soul  to  God,  and  strong  men  wept  aloud. 

Then  sweet  farewell ;  O  bitter-sweet  farewell ; 
O  brave  farewell !     Who  were  the  bravest  then, 
Or  they  who  went,  or  waited — women  or  men? 
They  who  the  cheers  heard,  or  the  funeral  knell  ? 
They  who  stepped  proudly  to  the  rattling  drum, 
Inflamed  by  war's  divine  delirium, 
Or  they  who  knew  no  mad  joy  of  the  fight, 
And  yet  breathed  on  through  waiting  day  and  weeping 
night  ? 

FAREWELL  and  forward !  O  to  live  it  over, 
The  first  wild  heart-beat  of  heroic  hours ! 
Forward,  like  mountain-torrents  after  showers ! 
Forward  to  death,  as  to  his  bride  the  lover ! 
Forward,  till  quick  recoils  the  impetuous  flood, 
And  ends  the  first  dread  scene  in  terror  and  in  blood ! 

Onward  once  more,  through  sun  and  shivering 

storm, — 

A  monstrous  length  with  wavering  bulk  enorm, — 
Wounded  or  striking,  bringing  blood  or  bleeding, 
Onward,  still  on,  the  agony  unheeding! 
Onward  with  failing  heart,  or  courage  high ! 


194  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Onward  through  heat,  and  hunger,  and  dismay, 

Turning  the  starry  night  to  murderous  day ! 

Onward,  with  hope  appalled,  once  more  to  strike,  and  die ! 

So  MARCHED,  so  fought,  so  agonized,  the  hosts ; 
Battling  through  forests ;  rotting  where  slow  crawls 
The  deathly  swamp-stream ;  and  like  pallid  ghosts 
Haunting  the  hospitals,  and  loathed  prison-walls. 
They  knew  what  freedom  was,  and  right  to  breathe 
Clean  air  who  burrowed  from  the  filth  and  seethe 
Of  foulest  pens,  only  that  dogs  might  track, 
And  to  the  death-pit  drag  their  living  corpses  back. 

Oh,  would  to  Heaven  some  sights  could  fade  from  out 
Clear  memory's  all  too  melancholy  page  — 
Fade  and  be  gone  forever !  Let  the  shout 
Of  victory  only  linger,  and  the  rage 
And  glory  of  battle  over  land  and  sea, 
And  all  that  noblest  is  in  war's  fierce  pageantry. 

Echoes  of  deeds  immortal,  O  awake ! 
Tremble  to  language,  into  music  break, 
Till  lyric  memory  takes  the  old  emotion, 
And  leaps  from  heart  to  heart  the  ancient  thrill ! 
Tell  of  great  deeds  that  yet  the  wide  earth  fill : 
How  first  upon  the  amazed  waves  of  ocean 
The  black,  infernal,  deadly  armored-ships 
Together  rushed,  and  all  the  world  stood  still, 
While  a  new  word  of  war  burst  from  those  iron  lips ; 
How  up  the  rivers  thundered  the  strong  fleets ; 
How  the  great  captains  'gainst  each  other  dashed 
Gigantic  armies.    What  wild  welcome  meets 
Some  well-loved  chief  who,  ere  those  armies  clashed, 
Rides  like  a  whirlwind  the  embattled  line, 
Kindling  the  stricken  ranks  to  bravery  divine ! 


THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE  195 

And,  hark,  at  set  of  sun,  the  cheer  that  greets 
Victorious  news  from  far-off  armies,  flashed 
From  camp  to  camp,  with  roar  on  answering  roar, 
Like  bellowing  waves  that  track  the  tempest  down  the 

shore. 

But  chiefly  tell  of  that  one  hour  of  all 
When  threatening  war  rolled  highest  its  full  tide, 
Even  to  the  perilous  northern  mountain-side 
Where  Heaven  should  bid  our  good  cause  rise  or  fall. 
Tell  of  that  hour,  for  never  in  all  the  world 
Was  braver  army  against  braver  hurled. 
To  both  the  victory,  all  unawares, 
Beyond  all  dreams  of  losing  or  of  winning; 
For  the  new  land  which  now  is  ours  and  theirs, 
Had  on  that  topmost  day  its  glorious  beginning. 
They  who  charged  up  that  drenched  and  desperate  slope 
Were  heroes  all  —  and  looked  in  heroes'  eyes ! 
Ah !  heroes  never  heroes  did  despise ! 
That  day  had  Strife  its  bloodiest  bourn  and  scope ; 
Above  the  shaken  hills  and  sulphurous  skies 
Peace  lifted  up  her  mournful  head  and  smiled  on  Hope. 

RUSHED  the  great  drama  on  its  tragic  way 
Swift  to  the  happy  end  from  that  tremendous  day. 
Happy,  indeed,  could  memory  lose  her  power 
And  yield  to  joy  alone  the  glad,  triumphant  hour ; 
Happy  if  every  aching  heart  could  shun 
Remembrance  of  the  unreturning  one ; 
If  at  the  Grand  Review,  when  mile  on  mile 
And  day  on  day  the  marching  columns  passed, 
Darkened  not  o'er  the  world  the  shadow  vast 
Of  his  foul  murder  —  he  the  free  from  guile, 
Sad-hearted,  loving,  and  beloved,  and  wise, 


196  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

Who  ruled  with  sinewy  hands  and  dreaming  eyes. 
What  soul  that  lived  then  who  remembers  not 
The  hour,  the  landscape,  ah !  the  very  spot, — 
Hateful  for  aye, —  where  news  that  he  was  slain 
Fell  like  a  hammer  on  the  daz6d  brain ! 

So  LONG  ago  it  was,  so  long  ago, 
All,  all  have  passed ;  the  terror  and  the  splendor 
Have  turned  like  yesterevening's  stormy  glow 
Into  a  sunset  memory  strange  and  tender. 
How  beautiful  it  seems,  what  lordly  sights, 
What  deeds  sublime,  what  wondrous  days  and  nights, 
What  love  of  comrades,  ay,  what  quickened  breath, 
When  first  we  knew  that,  startled,  quailing,  still 
We  too,  even  we,  along  the  blazing  hill, 
We,  with  the  best,  could  face  and  conquer  death ! 

GLORIOUS  all  these,  but  these  all  less  than  nought 
To  the  one  passion  of  those  days  divine, 
Love  of  the  land  our  own  hearts'  blood  had  bought  — 
Our  country,  our  own  country,  yours  and  mine, 
Then  known,  then  sternly  loved,  first  in  our  lives. 
Ah,  loved  we  not  our  children,  sisters,  wives  ? 
But  our  own  country,  this  was  more  than  they, —    , 
Our  wives,  our  children,  this, —  our  hope,  our  love 
For  all  most  dear,  but  more  —  the  dawning  day 
Of  freedom  for  the  world,  the  hope  above 
All  hope  for  the  sad  race  of  man.    For  where, 
In  what  more  lovely  world,  'neath  skies  more  fair, 
If  freedom  here  should  fail,  could  it  find  soil  and  air  ? 

In  this  one  thought,  one  passion, —  whate'er  fate 
Still  may  befall, —  one  moment  we  were  great! 
One  moment  in  life's  brief,  perplexed  hour 
We  climbed  the  height  of  being,  and  the  power 


THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE  197 

That  falls  alone  on  those  who  love  their  kind 
A  moment  made  us  one  with  the  Eternal  Mind. 

ONE  moment,  ah,  not  so,  dear  Country !   Thou 
Art  still  our  passion ;  still  to  thee  we  bow 
In  love  supreme !     Fairer  than  e'er  before 
Art  thou  to-day,  from  golden  shore  to  shore 
The  home  of  freemen.     Not  one  stain  doth  cling 
Now  to  thy  banner.     Argosies  of  war 
On  thy  imperial  rivers  bravely  fling 
Flags  of  the  nations,  but  no  message  bring 
Save  of  peace  only ;  while,  behold,  from  far 
The  Old  World  comes  to  greet  thy  natal  star 
That  with  the  circling  century  returns, 
And  in  the  Western  heavens  with  fourfold  beauty  burns 

LAND  that  we  love !   Thou  Future  of  the  World ! 
Thou  refuge  of  the  noble  heart  oppressed ! 
Oh  never  be  thy  shining  image  hurled 
From  its  high  place  in  the  adoring  breast 
Of  him  who  worships  thee  with  jealous  love ! 
Keep  thou  thy  starry  forehead  as  the  dove 
All  white,  and  to  the  eternal  Dawn  inclined ! 
Thou  art  not  for  thyself  but  for  mankind, 
And  to  despair  of  thee  were  to  despair 
Of  man,  of  man's  high  destiny,  of  God ! 
Of  thee  should  man  despair,  the  journey  trod 
Upward,  through  unknown  eons,  stair  on  stair, 
By  this  our  race,  with  bleeding  feet  and  slow, 
Were  but  the  pathway  to  a  darker  woe 
Than  yet  was  visioned  by  the  heavy  heart 
Of  prophet.     To  despair  of  thee !   Ah  no! 
For  thou  thyself  art  Hope,  Hope  of  the  World  thou  art ! 


198  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

COMRADES  beloved,  see,  the  fire  burns  low, 
And  darkness  thickens.     Soon  will  our  brief  part 
On  earth  forever  end,  and  we  shall  go 
To  join  the  unseen  ranks;  nor  will  we  swerve 
Or  fear,  when  to  the  silent,  great  reserve 
At  last  we  ordered  are  —  as  one  by  one 
Our  Captains  have  been  called,  their  labors  done, 
To  rest  and  wait  in  the  Celestial  Field. 
Ay,  year  by  year,  we  to  the  dead  did  yield 
Our  bravest.   Them  we  followed  to  the  tomb 
Sorrowing ;  for  they  were  worthy  of  our  love ; 
High-souled  and  generous,  loving  peace  above 
War  and  its  glories :  therefore  lives  no  gloom 
In  this  our  sorrow ;  rather  pride,  and  praise, 
And  gratitude,  and  memory  of  old  days. 

A  little  while  and  these  tired  hands  will  cease 
To  lift  obedient  or  in  war  or  peace  — 
Faithful  we  trust  in  peace  as  erst  in  war ; 
And  on  the  scroll  of  peace  some  triumphs  are 
Noble  as  battles  won ;  though  less  resounds 
The  fame,  as  deep  and  bitter  are  the  wounds. 

But  now  the  fire  burns  low,  and  we  must  sleep 
Erelong,  while  other  eyes  than  ours  the  vigil  keep. 
And  after  we  are  gone,  to  other  eyes 
That  watch  below  shall  come,  in  starry  skies, 
A  fairer  dawn,  whereon  in  fiery  light 
The  Eternal  Captain  shall  his  signals  write ; 
And  shaken  from  rest,  and  gazing  at  that  sign, 
On  shall  the  mighty  Nation  move,  led  by  a  hand  divine. 


"THE   WHITE   CITY"  199 


PART   II 

"THE   WHITE   CITY" 

i 

REECE  was;  Greece  is  no  more. 

Temple  and  town 
Have  crumbled  down; 

Time  is  the  fire  that  hath  consumed  them  all.  . 
Statue  and  wall 
In  ruin  strew  the  universal  floor. 


Greece  lives,  but  Greece  no  more ! 

Its  ashes  breed 

The  undying  seed 

Blown  westward  till,  in  Rome's  imperial  towers, 

Athens  reflowers ; 

Still  westward  —  lo,  a  veiled  and  virgin  shore ! 

in 

Say  not,  "  Greece  is  no  more." 

Through  the  clear  morn 

On  light  winds  borne 

Her  white- winged  soul  sinks  on  the  New  World's  breast. 

Ah !  happy  West — 

Greece  flowers  anew,  and  all  her  temples  soar ! 

IV 

One  bright  hour,  then  no  more 
Shall  to  the  skies 
These  columns  rise. 


200  FIVE   BOOKS   OF    SONG 

But  though  art's  flower  shall  fade,  again  the  seed 

Onward  shall  speed, 

Quickening  the  land  from  lake  to  ocean's  roar. 

v 

Art  lives,  though  Greece  may  never 
From  the  ancient  mold 
As  once  of  old 

Exhale  to  heaven  the  inimitable  bloom; 
Yet  from  that  tomb 
Beauty  walks  forth  to  light  the  world  forever ! 


THE  VANISHING  CITY 

i 
ENRAPTURED  memory,  and  all  ye  powers  of  being, 

To  new  life  waken !     Stamp  the  vision  clear 
On  the  soul's  inmost  substance.     Oh,  let  seeing 

Be  more  than  seeing ;  let  the  entranced  ear 
Take  deep  these  surging  sounds,  inweaved  with  light 

Of  unimagined  radiance ;  let  the  intense 
Illumined  loveliness  that  thrills  the  night 

Strike  in  the  human  heart  some  deeper  sense ! 
So  shall  these  domes  that  meet  heaven's  curved  blue, 

And  yon  long,  white  imperial  colonnade, 
And  many-columned  peristyle  endue 

The  mind  with  beauty  that  shall  never  fade ; 
Though  all  too  soon  to  dark  oblivion  wending  — 
Reared  in  one  happy  hour  to  know  as  swift  an  ending. 

ii 
Thou  shalt  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world 

Famed  for  their  grandeur,  ever  more  endure 


THE   VANISHING  CITY  2OI 

Imperishably  and  all  alone  impearled 

In  the  world's  living  thought,  the  one  most  sure 
Of  love  undying  and  of  endless  praise 

For  beauty  only  —  chief  of  all  thy  kind ; 
Immortal,  even  because  of  thy  brief  days ; 

Thou  cloud-built,  fairy  city  of  the  mind ! 
Here  man  doth  pluck  from  the  full  tree  of  life 

The  latest,  lordliest  flower  of  earthly  art ; 
This  doth  he  breathe,  while  resting  from  his  strife, 

This  presses  he  against  his  weary  heart ; 
Then,  wakening  from  his  dream  within  a  dream, 
He  flings  the  faded  flower  on  Time's  down-rushing 
stream. 

in 

Oh,  never  as  here  in  the  eternal  years 

Hath  burst  to  bloom  man's  free  and  soaring  spirit, 
Joyous,  untrammeled,  all  untouched  by  tears 

And  the  dark  weight  of  woe  it  doth  inherit. 
Never  so  swift  the  mind's  imaginings 

Caught  sculptured  form,  and  color.    Never  before, — 
Save  where  the  soul  beats  unembodied  wings 

'Gainst  viewless  skies, —  was  such  enchanted  shore 
Jeweled  with  ivory  palaces  like  these : 

By  day  a  miracle,  a  dream  by  night ; 
Yet  real  as  beauty  is,  and  as  the  seas 

Whose  waves  glance  back  keen  lines  of  glittering  light 
When  million  lamps,  and  coronets  of  fire, 
And  fountains  as  of  flame,  to  the  bright  stars  aspire. 

IV 

Glide,  magic  boat,  from  out  the  green  lagoon, 
'Neath  the  dark  bridge,  into  this  smiting  glow 


202  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

And  unthought  glory.     Even  the  glistening  moon 

Hangs  in  the  nearer  splendor. —  Let  not  go 
The  scene,  my  soul,  till  ever  't  is  thine  own ! 

This  is  Art's  citadel  and  crown.     How  still 
The  innumerous  multitudes  from  every  zone, 

That  watch  and  listen ;  while  each  eye  doth  fill 
With  joyous  tears  unwept.     Now  solemn  strains 

Of  brazen  music  give  the  waiting  soul 
Voice  and  a  sigh  —  it  other  speech  disdains, 

Here  where  the  visual  sense  faints  to  its  goal ! 
Ah,  silent  multitudes,  ye  are  a  part 
Of  the  wise  architect's  supreme  and  glorious  art ! 


O  joy  almost  too  high  for  saddened  mortal ! 

O  ecstasy  envisioned !     Thou  shouldst  be 
Lasting  as  thou  art  lovely ;  as  immortal 

As  through  all  time  the  matchless  thought  of  thee  ! 
Yet  would  we  miss,  then,  the  sweet,  piercing  pain 

Of  thy  inconstancy !     Could  we  but  banish 
This  haunting  pang,  ah,  then  thou  wouldst  not  reign 

One  with  the  golden  sunset  that  doth  vanish 
Through  myriad  lingering  tints  down  melting  skies ; 

Nor  the  pale  mystery  of  the  New  World  flower 
That  blooms  once  only,  then  forever  dies  — 

Pouring  a  century's  wealth  on  one  dear  hour. 
Then  vanish,  City  of  Dream,  and  be  no  more ; 
Soon  shall  this  fair  Earth's  self  be  lost  on  the  unknown 
shore. 


LOWELL  203 

THE  TOWER  OF   FLAME 

THE    COLUMBIAN   EXPOSITION,   JULY    IO,    1893 


HERE  "for  the  world  to  see  men  brought  their  fairest, 

Whatever  of  beauty  is  in  all  the  earth  ; 
The  priceless  flower  of  art,  the  loveliest,  rarest, 

Here  by  our  inland  ocean  came  to  glorious  birth. 

ii 

Yet  on  this  day  of  doom  a  strange  new  splendor 
Shed  its  celestial  light  on  all  men's  eyes  : 

Flower  of  the  hero-soul, —  consummate,  tender, — 
That  from  the  tower  of  flame  sprang  to  the  eternal  skies. 


FROM  the  shade  of  the  elms  that  murmured  above  thy 

birth 
And  the  pines  that  sheltered  thy  life  and  shadowed  the 

end, 

'Neath  the  white-blue  skies  thee  to  thy  rest  we  bore, — 
'Neath  the  summer  skies  thou  didst  love,  'mid  the 

songs  of  thy  birds, 
By  thy  childhood's  stream,  'neath  the  grass  and  the 

flowers  thou  knewest, 
Near  the  grave  of  the  singer  whose  name  with  thine 

own  is  enlaureled, 

By  the  side  of  the  brave  who  live  in  thy  deathless  song, — 
Here  all  that  was  mortal  of  thee  we  left,  with  our  tears, 
13 


FIVE  BOOKS  Or  SONG 

WirJh  oar  kroe^  and  ow  grief  that  cocki  not  be  quenched 

or  abated  ; 
For  even  die  pan  that  was  mortal,  sweet  frknd  and  com- 

—   -  _  .   -  -. 

That  fatCj  and  that  figure  of  beantr,  and  flashing  eye 
Whkhmytj.djsbooe  forth  Hke  a  gods  -ink!  ksserrarau 
And  in  gay-haired,  streinons  age  stafi  glowed  and  1ns- 


These,  too.  were  dear  tons,  —  blame  us  not,  soaring  spirit! 
These,  too,  were  dear,  and  now  we  shall  never  behold 


TIB  i  ni  ihiliilllM  ijpil  ilii|i  nfilii  •ikia»mrliiiiil 
n 

Bvt  not  for  ovrseiTcs  alone  are  ve  spent  ia  gnermg,. 

xor  tne  sCDCfcen  J^ano>  vc  mooocn  irnose  h£OK  is  uaxjbeuou« 
Wbosesoal  in  sorrow  vent  forth  in  the  m«ht-tiiDe  vitfa 


Ixncr  a*d  laveate  thoo  of  die  wide  New  World, 


shaken  OK  old  the  ^^^o  oc  the  orceuOd  o*  men. 
Thoa  didst  lore  as  a  strong  man  loreth  the  nttiden  be 


X-oc  the  voman  he  toys  vim,  and  smgs  to,  and,  passing, 


h»  pride, 
Whonoshadov  of  vTongshansofier,  whoshanstaiki 


Itae  as  the  sly  of  die  eri  her  foeman  may  threat, 
SBVC  br  woid  or  by  thought  of  her  own  in  her  whiteness 


And  wovnded  alooe  of  the  lightning  her  spint  engenders. 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GREAT  MAX         205 

m 

Take  of  thy  grief  new  strength,  new  fife,  O  Land* 
Weep  no  more  he  is  lost,  but  rejoice  and  be  glad  forever 
That  thy  lover  who  died  was  bom,  for  liy  pleasure,  thy 


Wide  10s  love  and  his  fame  bght  ever  diy  climbing  padu 
14,1891. 

THE  SILENCE  OF  TEXXYSOX 


WHEX  that  great  shade  into  the  silence  • 

^liTODgii  iinnpiiiy  suence  passed • 
When  he,  oar  century's  soul  and  voice,  was  hushed, 
We  who,— appalled,  bowed,  crushed, — 
Within  die  holy  moonlight  of  his  death 
•  '•  i::t- 1  ~.-~  t  ~  irr.~  _•  irt-i:.".  : 
Ah,  not  in  song 
Might  we  oar  grief  prolong. 
Silence  alone,  O  golden  spirit  fled ! 
Silence  alone  could  mourn  that  silence  dread. 

OX  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GREAT  MAX 

WHEN  from  this  mortal  scene 
A  BfTfflf1  soul  passes  to  the  vast  unknown. 
Let  not  in  hopeless  grief  die  spirit  groan. 
Deadi  comes  to  aH,  die  nnghrr  and  die  mean. 
If  by  that  death  die  whole  world  sufier  loss, 
This  be  die  proof  (and  fighter  dms  our  cross), 
That  he  for  whom  die  world  doth  sorely 


Greatly  hadi  blessed  mankind  in  diat  he  once  did  &rc. 

Then,  at  die  parting  breadi 

Let  men  praise  Liie,  nor  idly  bfame  daik  Deadi. 


206  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

A   HERO    OF   PEACE 

IN   MEMORY  OF   ROBERT   ROSS:    DIED    MARCH    6,  1894 


No  bugle  on  the  blast 

Calls  warriors  face  to  face. 

Grim  battle  being  forever  past 
Gone  is  the  hero-race. 

ii 

Ah  no  !  there  is  no  peace ! 

— If  liberty  shall  live 
Never  may  freemen  dare  to  cease 

Their  love,  their  life  to  give. 

in 

Unto  the  patriot's  heart 
The  silent  summons  comes ; 

Not  braver  he  who  does  his  part 
To  the  sound  of  beating  drums. 

IV 

And  thou  who  gavest  youth, 
And  life,  and  all  most  dear ; 

Sweet  soul,  impassionate  of  truth, 
White  on  thy  murdered  bier !  — 


Thy  deed,  thy  date,  thy  name 

Are  wreathed  with  deathless  flowers. 

Thy  fate  shall  be  the  guiding  flame 
That  lights  to  nobler  hours. 


THE   BATTLE   MONUMENT  207 

THE   BATTLE   MONUMENT 

TRENTON,    OCTOBER    19,  1893 

SINCE  ancient  Time  began 

Ever  on  some  great  soul  God  laid  an  infinite  burden  — 
The  weight  of  all  this  world,  the  hopes  of  man. 

Conflict  and  pain,  and  fame  immortal  are  his  guerdon ! 

And  this  the  unfaltering  token 

Of  him,  the  Deliverer  —  what  though  tempests  beat, 
Though  all  else  fail,  though  bravest  ranks  be  broken, 

He  stands  unscared,  alone,  nor  ever  knows  defeat. 

Such  was  that  man  of  men ; 

And  if  are  praised  all  virtues,  every  fame 
Most  noble,  highest,  purest  —  then,  ah !  then, 

Upleaps  in  every  heart  the  name  none  needs  to  name. 

Ye  who  defeated,  'whelmed, 

Betray  the  sacred  cause,  let  go  the  trust ; 
Sleep,  weary,  while  the  vessel  drifts  unhelmedj 

Here  see  in  triumph  rise  the  hero  from  the  dust ! 

All  ye  who  fight  forlorn 

'Gainst  fate  and  failure;  ye  who  proudly  cope 
With  evil  high  enthroned;  all  ye  who  scorn 

Life  from  Dishonor's  hand,  here  take  new  heart  of  hope. 

Here  know  how  Victory  borrows 

For  the  brave  soul  a  front  as  of  disaster, 

And  in  the  bannered  East  what  glorious  morrows 
For  all  the  blackness  of  the  night  speed  surer,  faster. 

13* 


208  FIVE   BOOKS 'OF   SONG 

Know  by  this  pillared  sign 

For  what  brief  while  the  powers  of  earth  and  hell 
Can  war  against  the  spirit  of  truth  divine, 

Or  can  against  the  heroic  heart  of  man  prevail. 


FAME 

FAME  is  an  honest  thing, 

It  is  deceiv6d  not ; 

It  passes  by  the  palace  gates 

Where  the  crowned  usurper  waits, 

Enters  the  peasant-poet's  cot 

And  cries :  "  Thou  art  the  king !  " 


A   MONUMENT  BY  ST.  GAUDENS 

THIS  is  not  Death,  nor  Sorrow,  nor  sad  Hope; 
Nor  Rest  that  follows  strife.     But,  oh  more  dread ! 
'T  is  Life,  for  all  its  agony  serene ; 
Immortal,  and  unmournful,  and  content. 


A   MEMORY   OF   RUBINSTEIN 

HE  of  the  ocean  is,  its  thunderous  waves 
Echo  his  music ;  while  far  down  the  shore 
Mad  laughter  hurries  —  a  white,  blowing  spume. 
I  hear  again  in  memory  that  wild  storm ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  go  rushing  round  the  world, 
And  broods  above  the  rage  one  sphinx-like  face. 


"HOW   PADEREWSKI   PLAYS"  209 

;HOW   PADEREWSKI   PLAYS" 


IF  songs  were  perfume,  color,  wild  desire ; 

If  poet's  words  were  fire 

That  burned  to  blood  in  purple-pulsing  veins ; 

If  with  a  bird-like  thrill  the  moments  throbbed  to  hours- 

If  summer's  rains 

Turned  drop  by  drop  to  shy,  sweet,  maiden  flowers; 

If  God  made  flowers  with  light  and  music  in  them, 

And  saddened  hearts  could  win  them ; 

If  loosened  petals  touched  the  ground 

With  a  caressing  sound ; 

If  love's  eyes  uttered  word 
No  listening  lover  e'er  before  had  heard ; 
If  silent  thoughts  spake  with  a  bugle's  voice; 
If  flame  passed  into  song  and  cried, "Rejoice!  Rejoice!" 

If  words  could  picture  life's,  hope's,  heaven's  eclipse 
When  the  last  kiss  has  fallen  on  dying  eyes  and  lips ; 
If  all  of  mortal  woe 
Struck  on  one  heart  with  breathless  blow  on  blow ; 

If  melody  were  tears,  and  tears  were  starry  gleams 
That  shone  in  evening's  amethystine  dreams ; 
Ah,  yes,  if  notes  were  stars,  each  star  a  different  hue, 
Trembling  to  earth  in  dew ; 
Or  if  the  boreal  pulsings,  rose  and  white, 
Made  a  majestic  music  in  the  night; 
If  all  the  orbs  lost  in  the  light  of  day 
In  the  deep,  silent  blue  began  their  harps  to  play ; 

And  when  in  frightening  skies  the  lightnings  flashed 
And  storm-clouds  crashed, 


210  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

If  every  stroke  of  light  and  sound  were  but  excess  of 

beauty ; 

If  human  syllables  could  e'er  refashion 
That  fierce  electric  passion ; 
If  other  art  could  match  (as  were  the  poet's  duty) 
The  grieving,  and  the  rapture,  and  the  thunder 
Of  that  keen  hour  of  wonder, — 
That  light  as  if  of  heaven,  that  blackness  as  of  hell, — 
How  Paderewski  plays  then  might  I  dare  to  tell. 

ii 

How  Paderewski  plays !     And  was  it  he 
Or  some  disbodied  spirit  which  had  rushed 
From  silence  into  singing ;  and  had  crushed 
Into  one  startled  hour  a  life's  felicity, 
And  highest  bliss  of  knowledge  —  that  all  life,  grief, 

wrong, 
Turn  at  the  last  to  beauty  and  to  song ! 


HANDEL'S   LARGO 

WHEN  the  great  organs,  answering  each  to  each, 
Joined  with  the  violin's  celestial  speech, 
Then  did  it  seem  that  all  the  heavenly  host 
Gave  praise  to  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 
We  saw  the  archangels  through  the  ether  winging ; 
We  heard  their  souls  go  forth  in  solemn  singing ; 
"  Praise,  praise  to  God,"  they  sang,  "  through  endless 

days, 
Praise  to  the  Eternal  One,  and  nought  but  praise ; " 


THE  STRICKEN  PLAYER  21 1 

And  as  they  sang  the  spirits  of  the  dying 
Were  upward  borne  from  lips  that  ceased  their  sighing ; 
And  dying  was  not  death,  but  deeper  living  — 
Living,  and  prayer,  and  praising  and  thanksgiving ! 


THE   STAIRWAY 

BY  this  stairway  narrow,  steep, 

Thou  shalt  climb  from  song  to  sleep ; 

From  sleep  to  dream  and  song  once  more ;  — 

Sleep  well,  sweet  friend,  sleep  well,  dream  deep ! 


THE   ACTOR 
i 

GLORIOUS  that  ancient  art !  — 
In  thine  own  form  to  show  the  fire  and  fashion 
Of  every  age  and  clime,  of  every  passion 
That  dwells  in  man's  deep  heart ! 

ii 

Player,  play  well,  not  meanly, 

Thy  part  in  life,  as  on  the  mimic  stage ! 

From  highest  thought  is  born  art's  noblest  rage 

Live,  act,  end  all,  serenely ! 


THE   STRICKEN   PLAYER 

WHEN  at  life's  last  the  stricken  player  lies, 
When  throng  before  his  darkened,  dreaming  eyes 
His  soul's  companions,  which  more  real  then  — 
The  human  comrades,  the  live  women  and  men 


212  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

Of  the  large  world  he  knew,  or  the  ideal 
Imagined  creatures  his  own  art  made  real ; 
Wherein  he  poured  his  spirit's  very  being, 
His  soul  and  body  ?     Are  those  dim  eyes  seeing 
Himself  as  one  of  Shakespeare's  men  ?     Are  maids 
And  queens  he  wooed,  the  kings  he  was,  or  knew 
Upon  the  tragic  stage,  are  these  the  shades 
That  now  his  visionary  hours  pursue, 
Attendant  on  his  passing  ?     Listen  near ! 
What  breathed  murmurs  'scape  those  pallid  lips 
To  which  the  nations  hearkened,  ere  the  eclipse 
Of  all  that  brightness  ?     Now  lean  close  and  hear; 
Ah,  see  that  look,  sweeter  than  when  he  smiled 
Upon  the  applauding  world,  while  she  draws  near 
And  hears  a  dear  voice  whisper : "  Child,  my  Child !  " 


AN  AUTUMN   DIRGE 
(E.  F.  H.) 

I 

OH  ease  my  heart,  sad  song,  oh  ease  my  heart ! 
In  all  this  autumn  pageantry  no  part 
Hath  sorrow !     Woods,  and  fields,  and  meadows  glow 
With  jeweled  colors.     All  alone  I  go 
Amid  the  poignant  beauty  of  the  year 
Too  heavy-hearted  for  one  easeful  tear. 

For  she  who  loved  this  autumn  splendor, 
These  flaming  marsh-flowers,  oak-leaves  rich  and  ten 
der, — 

And  who  in  loving  all,  made  all  to  me  more  dear, — 
No  more  is  here, 
No  more,  no  more  is  here ! 


AN  AUTUMN  DIRGE  213 

Sad  song,  oh  bring  some  thought 
With  music  from  some  happy  memory  caught ! 
No  light  for  me  in  all  the  lovely  day 
Those  eyes  being  shut  that  first  did  lead  the  way 
'Neath  these  great  pines  whose  green  vault  hides  the  sky, 
And  down  the  rock-strewn  shore  where  the  white  sea- 
birds  cry ! 

ii 

All  fades  but  those  young,  happy  hours 
And  in  my  soul  once  more  the  old  joy  flowers. 
It  flowers  once  more  only  to  bring  new  pain ; 
For  all  in  vain,  • 

O  song  !  thou  singest  in  my  grieving  heart ! 
Thou  hast  no  art 

To  bring  again  the  smile  I  loved  so  well, 
The  voice  that  like  a  bell 
Sounded  all  moods  of  sorrow  and  of  laughter, 
And  the  dear  presence  that  in  childhood's  earliest 

thought 

And  all  the  bright  or  darkened  days  thereafter 
Into  my  life  a  saddened  sweetness  brought  — 
Something  of  mother  and  of  sister  love, 
A  friendship  far  above 
The  ties  that  bind  and  loosen  as  we  tread 
The  thronged  pleasures  of  life's  later  days. 

Sweet  maiden  soul,  I  cannot  praise 
But  mourn  thee,  mourn  thee,  to  the  shadows  fled. 

in 

Shadows,  O  never  more ! 
For  when  passed  forth  thy  spirit  it  did  seem 
As  if  against  the  black  a  golden  door 
Were  opened  and  a  gleam 


214  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

From  the  eternal  Light  fell  on  thy  face 
And  made  a  visible  glory  in  the  place. 

Ah,  well  I  know 

Whatever  be  the  source  from  whence  we  flow, 
Whate'er  the  power  begot  these  hearts  of  ours, — 
As  the  great  earth  brings  forth  the  summer  flowers, — 
That  power  is  good,  is  God,  and  in  her  dying  room 
Humaned  itself  to  sense  and  lightened  all  the  gloom. 


ELEONORA   DUSE 

IF  ever  flashed  upon  this  mortal  scene 

A  soul  unsheathed,  a  pale,  trembling  flame, 

That  suffered  every  gust,  and  yet  did  cling 

With  fire  unquenchable  —  it  is  thine  own, 

Thou  artist  of  the  real !     Unto  thee 

No  mirth  of  life  is  secret ;  but,  sweet  soul, 

With  what  sure  art  thou  picturest  human  woe ! 

How  natural  tears  to  those  Italian  eyes  — 

Shadowing  in  untold  depths  whatever  grief 

Familiar  is  to  mortals ! 


KELP  ROCK 
(E.  C.  S.) 

"  ROCK  's  the  song-soil,"  truly 
(So  sang  one  bard  of  power); 
Therefore  our  poet  duly 
Built  on  this  rock  his  tower. 
And  therefore  in  his  singing 
We  breathe  the  salty  morning, 


AT  NIAGARA  2 15 

We  hear  the  storm-bell  ringing, 
The  "  siren's  "  piercing  warning 
The  sea-winds  roaring,  sighing, 
The  long  waves  rising,  falling, 
We  hear  the  herons  calling, 
The  clashing  waves  replying. 


CHARLESTON 

1886. 

Is  this  the  price  of  beauty !     Fairest,  thou, 

Of  all  the  cities  of  the  sunrise  sea, 

Yet  thrice  art  stricken.     First,  war  harried  thee ; 

Then  the  dread  circling  tempest  drove  its  plow 
Right  through  thy  palaces ;  and  now,  O  now ! 

A  sound  of  terror,  and  thy  children  flee 

Into  the  night  and  death.     O  Deity  ! 

Thou  God  of  war  and  whirlwind,  whose  dark  brow, 
Frowning,  makes  tremble  sea  and  solid  land ! 

These  are  thy  creatures  who  to  heaven  cry 

While  hell  roars  'neath  them,  and  its  portals  ope ; 
To  thee  they  call, —  to  thee  who  bidst  them  die, 

Who  hast  forgotten  to  withhold  thy  hand, — 

For  thou,  Destroyer,  art  man's  only  Hope ! 


AT    NIAGARA 

i 

THERE  at  the  chasm's  edge  behold  her  lean 
Trembling  as,  'neath  the  charm, 
A  wild  bird  lifts  no  wing  to  'scape  from  harm ; 
Her  very  soul  drawn  to  the  glittering,  green, 


2l6  FIVE   BOOKS  OF  SONG 

Smooth,  lustrous,  awful,  lovely  curve  of  peril;  , 
While  far  below  the  bending  sea  of  beryl 
Thunder  and  tumult — whence  a  billowy  spray 
Enclouds  the  day. 

ii 

What  dream  is  hers  ?  No  dream  hath  wrought  that 

spell ! 

The  long  waves  rise  and  sink ; 
,        Pity  that  virgin  soul  on  passion's  brink, 
Confronting  Fate, —  swift,  unescapable, — 
Fate,  which  of  nature  is  the  intent  and  core, 
And  dark  and  strong  as  the  steep  river's  pour, 
Cruel  as  love,  and  wild  as  love's  first  kiss ! 
Ah,  God  !  the  abyss ! 


THE  CHILD-GARDEN 

IN  the  child-garden  buds  and  blows 
A  blossom  lovelier  than  the  rose. 

If  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  earth 
In  one  garden  broke  to  birth, 

Not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Could  with  this  sweet  bloom  compare ; 

Nor  would  all  their  shining  be 
Peer  to  its  lone  bravery. 

Fairer  than  the  rose,  I  say  ? 
Fairer  than  the  sun-bright  day 

In  whose  rays  all  glories  show, 
All  beauty  is,  all  blossoms  blow. 


THE  CHRIST   CHILD  217 

While  beside  it  deeply  shine 
Blooms  that  take  its  light  divine : 

The  perilous  sweet  flower  of  Hope 
Here  its  hiding  eyes  doth  ope, 

And  Gentleness  doth  near  uphold 
Its  healing  leaves  and  heart  of  gold ; . 

Here  tender  fingers  push  the  seed 

Of  Knowledge ;  pluck  the  poisonous  weed  • 

Here  blossoms  Joy  one  singing  hour, 
And  here  of  Love  the  immortal  flower. 

What  this  blossom,  fragrant,  tender, 
That  outbeams  the  rose's  splendor; 

Purer  is,  more  tinct  with  light 
Than  the  lily's  flame  of  white  ? 

Of  beauty  hath  this  flower  the  whole, 
And  its  name  —  the  Human  Soul ! 


THE  CHRIST-CHILD 

A  PICTURE  BY  FRANK  VINCENT  DU  MOND 


DONE  is  the  day  of  care. 

Into  the  shadowy  room 

Flows  the  pure  evening  light,  . 

To  stem  the  gathering  gloom, 

The  lily's  flame  illume, 

And  the  bowed  heads  make  bright 

The  heads  bowed  low  in  prayer. 


2l8  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

II 

See  how  the  level  rays 
Through  the  white  garments  pour 
Of  the  holy  child,  who  stands, 
With  bending  brow,  to  implore 
Grace  on  the  toilers'  store ; 
Oh,  see  those  sinless  hands  ! 
Behold,  the  Christ-child  prays ! 

in 

Wait,  wait,  ye  lingering  rays, 
Stand  still,  O  Earth  and  Sun, 
Draw  near,  thou  Soul  of  God  — 
This  is  the  suffering  one ! 
Already  the  way  is  begun 
The  pierce" d  Saviour  trod; 
And  now  the  Christ-child  prays, 
The  holy  Christ-child  prays. 


A  CHILD 
i 

HER  voice  was  like  the  song  of  birds ; 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  stars ; 
Her  little  waving  hands  were  like 

Bird's  wings  that  beat  the  bars. 


And  when  those  waving  hands  were  still,- 

Her  soul  had  fled  away, — 
The  music  faded  from  the  air, 

The  color  from  the  day. 


ON   THE   BAY  219 

TWO  VALLEYS 

YES,  't  is  a  glorious  sight, 

This  valley,  that  mountain  height. 

The  river  plunges  and  roars 

Like  the  wild  sea  on  its  shores 

What  time  in  waves  enorm 

Breaks  the  gigantic  storm. 

The  wooded  mount  doth  climb 

To  a  thought  intense,  sublime. 

The  glory  of  all  I  feel ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart,  will  steal 

Down  the  journey  of  years, 

Through  the  vale  of  life,  and  of  tears, 

Far  back  to  the  least  of  valleys 

Where  a  slow  brook  curves  and  dallies, 

Where  a  boy,  in  the  twilight  gleam, 

Walks  alone  with  his  dream. 


ON   THE  BAY 

THIS  watery  vague  how  vast !   This  misty  globe, 
Seen  from  this  center  where  the  ferry  plies, — 
It  plies,  but  seems  to  poise  in  middle  air, — 
Soft  gray  below  gray  heavens,  and  in  the  west 
A  rose-gray  memory  of  the  sunken  sun ; 
And,  where  gray  water  touches  grayer  sky, 
A  band  of  darker  gray  pricked  out  with  lights  — 
A  diamond-twinkling  circlet  bounding  all ; 


220  FIVE   BOOKS  OF   SONG 

And  where  the  statue  looms,  a  quenchless  star ; 
And  where  the  lighthouse,  a  red,  pulsing  flame; 
While  the  great  bridge  its  starry  diadem 
Shows  through  the  gray,  itself  in  grayness  lost ! 


WASHINGTON    SQUARE 

THIS  is  the  end  of  the  town  that  I  love  the  best. 
Oh,  lovely  the  hour  of  light  from  the  burning  west — 
Of  light  that  lingers  and  fades  in  the  shadowy  square 
Where  the  solemn  fountain  lifts  a  shaft  in  the  air 
To  catch  the  skyey  colors,  and  fling  them  down 
In  a  wild- wood  torrent  that  drowns  the  noise  of  the  town. 
And  lovely  the  hour  of  the  still  and  dreamy  night 
When,  lifted  against  the  blue,  stands  the  arch  of  white 
With  one  clear  planet  above ;  and  the  sickle  moon, 
In  curve  reversed  from  the  arch's  marble  round, 
Silvers  the  sapphire  sky.     Now  soon,  ah  soon, 
Shall  the  city  square  be  turned  to  holy  ground 
Through  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the 

glowing  flower, — 
The  Cross  of  Light, —  that  looms  from  the  sacred  tower. 


THE   CITY 


OH,  dear  is  the  song  of  the  pine 
When  the  wind  of  the  night-time  blows, 

And  dear  is  the  murmuring  river 

That  afar  through  my  childhood  flows ; 


A    RHYME   OF  TYRINGHAM  221 

And  soft  is  the  raindrop's  beat 

And  the  fountain's  lyric  play, 
But  to  me  no  music  is  half  so  sweet 

As  the  thunder  of  Broadway ! 

ii 
Stream  of  the  living  world 

Where  dash  the  billows  of  strife!  — 
One  plunge  in  the  mighty  torrent 

Is  a  year  of  tamer  life  ! 
City  of  glorious  days, 

Of  hope,  and  labor,  and  mirth, 
With  room,  and  to  spare,  on  thy  splendid  bays 

For  the  ships  of  all  the  earth  ! 

A  RHYME  OF  TYRINGHAM 

DOWN  in  the  meadow  and  up  on  the  height 
The  breezes  are  blowing  the  willows  white. 
In  the  elms  and  maples  the  robins  call, 
And  the  great  black  crow  sails  over  all 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

The  river  winds  through  the  trees  and  the  brake 
And  the  meadow-grass  like  a  shining  snake ; 
And  low  in  the  summer  and  loud  in  the  spring 
The  rapids  and  reaches  murmur  and  sing 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

In  the  shadowy  pools  the  trout  are  shy, 
So  creep  to  the  bank  and  cast  the  fly ! 
What  thrills  and  tremors  the  tense  cords  stir 
When  the  trout  it  strikes  with  a  tug  and  whir 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley ! 


222  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

At  dark  of  the  day  the  mist  spreads  white, 
Like  a  magic  lake  in  the  glimmering  light ; 
Or  the  winds  from  the  meadow  the  white  mists  blow, 
And  the  fireflies  glitter, —  a  sky  below, — 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

And  oh,  in  the  windy  days  of  the  fall 
The  maples  and  elms  are  scarlet  all, 
And  the  world  that  was  green  is  gold  and  red, 
And  with  huskings  and  cider  they  're  late  to  bed 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

Now  squirrel  and  partridge  and  hawk  and  hare 
And  wildcat  and  woodchuck  and  fox  beware  ! 
The  three  days'  hunt  is  waxing  warm 
For  the  count  up  dinner  at  Riverside  Farm 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

The  meadow-ice  will  be  freezing  soon, 

And  then  for  a  skate  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

So  pile  the  wood  on  the  hearth,  my  boy ! 

Winter  is  coming !     I  wish  you  joy 

By  the  light  of  the  hearth  and  the  moon,  my  boy, 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 
THE  BERKSHIRES, 


ELSIE 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  Elsie  asked, 
And  her  rose-leaf  dimples  masked 
'Neath  a  pleading  look,  the  while 
On  her  pouting  lips  a  smile 


ELSIE  223 

Hovered,  yet  was  out  of  sight 

Like  a  star  that 's  hid  at  night 

By  a  filmy,  flying  cloud. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  scarce  aloud 

Lovely  Cousin  Elsie  said. 

"  Why  no  answer,  Cousin  Ed  ? 

Do  you  hate  me  then,  or  why 

From  Your  Highness  no  reply  ?  " 

So  the  chiding  witch  ran  on : 

"  In  a  moment  I  '11  be  gone  ; 

Then  too  late,  Sir  No  Gallant ! 

Quick !     I  '11  tell  my  precious  aunt 

That  you  love  me  not,"  she  cries, 

"  That  you  hate  me  and  despise." 

Flash  the  great,  gray,  long-lashed  eyes ; 

Half  in  earnest  now  the  girl ; 

Down  the  pretty  corners  curl 

Of  the  tiny  mouth,  and  lo  ! 

From  those  eyes  two  tearlets  flow ; — 

Just  two  kisses,  and  they  go  ! 

Like  a  sunburst  after  showers, 

Like  white  light  upon  the  flowers, 

Now  again  the  dimples  show. 

But  she  could  not  understand 
Why  so  long  the  answer  waited 
For  the  loved  and  not  the  hated, 
While  he  held  that  little  hand, 
And  like  a  bird  she  sang  and  said, — 
Half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun, — 
"  Do  you  love  me,  Solemn  One  ? 
Do  you  love  me,  Cousin  Ed  ? 
Do  you  love  me,  do  you  love  me  ? 
Love  me,  love  me,  Cousin  Ed  ?  " 


224  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

INDIRECTION 

I  SAW  not  the  leaf 

But  its  shadow  trembling,  trembling  down. 
I  faced  to  northward,  to  my  grief, 

When  from  the  southern  sky  a  crimson  meteor  lit  the 

star-dark  town. 
I  saw  not  naked  Love 
Lean  from  his  porphyry  throne  above 
And  touch  her  heart  to  flame, 
Yet  on  her  brow  I  saw  the  swift,  sweet,  virgin  shame. 


"AH,   BE   NOT   FALSE" 

i 

AH,  be  not  false,  sweet  Splendor ! 

Be  true,  be  good ; 
Be  wise  as  thou  art  tender ; 

Be  all  that  Beauty  should. 


Not  lightly  be  thy  citadel  subdued 
Not  ignobly,  not  untimely. 

Take  praise  in  solemn  mood ; 
Take  love  sublimely. 


HOW  DEATH  MAY  MAKE  A  MAN     225 

THE  ANSWER 

THROUGH  starry  space  two  angels  dreamed  their  flight, 
'Mid  worlds  and  thoughts  of  worlds,  through  day  and 
night. 

Then  one  spake  forth  whose  voice  was  like  the  flower 
That  blossoms  in  the  fragrant  midnight  hour. 
This  white-browed  angel  of  the  other  asked : 

"  Of  all  the  essences  that  ever  basked 
In  the  eternal  presence ;  of  all  things, 
All  thoughts,  all  joys,  all  dreads,  all  sorrowings 
Amid  the  unimaginable  vast, — 
Being,  or  shall  be,  or  forever  past, — 
Profound  with  dark,  or  hid  in  endless  light — 
Which  of  all  these  most  deep  and  infinite  ?  " 

Then  did  the  elder  speak,  the  while  he  turned 
On  him  who  asked  clear  eyes  that  slowly  burned 
The  spirit  through,  like  to  a  living  coal : 
"  No  depth  there  is  so  deep  as  woman's  soul." 


HOW   DEATH   MAY   MAKE  A   MAN 

i 

DEATH  is  a  sorry  plight, 
It  bringeth  unto  man 

End  of  all  delight. 

Yet  many  a  woeful  wight 
Only  dying  can 
Quit  him  like  a  man. 


226  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

II 

Dawdling,  drawling,  silly, 

Maundering,  scarce  a  man, 
Driven  willy-nilly, 
When  he  's  dying  will  he 
Run  as  once  he  ran, 
Or  quit  him  like  a  man? 

in 

Vile  from  out  the  wrack 

Crawls  he  less  than  man ; 
Cowering  in  his  track 
Beaten,  broken,  black ; 

Curse  him  if  you  can  — 
Death  may  make  him  man. 

IV 

In  life  the  wretch  did  nought 

Worthy  of  a  man ; 
Now  by  Death  he  's  caught, 
What  a  change  is  wrought ! 
Whom  the  world  did  ban 
Quits  life  like  a  man. 


Braced  stiff  against  the  wall, 
Behold,  at  last,  a  man. 

Lost  —  life  and  honor,  all ! 

At  Death's  quick  touch  and  call 
See,  the  craven  can 
Quit  him  like  a  man. 


"CAME  TO  A  MASTER  OF  SONG"  227 

"CAME  TO   A   MASTER   OF   SONG" 


CAME  to  a  master  of  song 

And  the  human  heart 
One  who  had  followed  him  long 

And  worshiped  his  art ; 
One  whom  the  poet's  singing 

Had  lured  from  death, 
Joy  to  the  crushed  soul  bringing 

And  heaven's  breath ; 


Came  to  him  once  in  an  hour 

Of  terror  and  stress, 
And  cried,  "  Thou  alone  hast  power 

To  save  me  and  bless ; 
Thou  alone,  pure  heart  and  free, 

Canst  pluck  from  disaster, 
If  to  a  wretch  like  me 

Thou  wilt  stoop,  O  master !  " 

in 

Answered  the  bard  with  shame, 

And  sorrow  and  trembling : 
"  Was  I  false,  was  my  song  to  blame  ? 

Was  my  art  dissembling? 
I  of  all  mortals  the  saddest, 

The  quickest  to  fall, 
And  song  of  mine  highest  and  gladdest 

Repentance  all ! " 


228  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

BARDS 
I 

SOME  from  books  resound  their  rhymes  • 
Set  them  ringing  with  a  faint, 
Sorrowful,  and  sweet,  and  quaint 
Memory  of  the  olden  times, 
Like  the  sound  of  evening  chimes. 

ii 

Some  go  wandering  on  their  way 
Through  the  forest,  past  the  herds, 
Laughing  maidens,  singing  birds; 

On  their  sylvan  lutes  they  play — 

Danceth  by  the  lyric  Day ! 

in 

Bards  there  be  the  deep  sky  under 
Who  in  high,  authentic  verse 
Mysteries  and  moods  rehearse 
With  a  voice  like  Sinai's  thunder, 
Chanting  to  a  world  of  wonder. 

IV 

And  those  have  sung  whose  melody, 
Drawn  from  out  the  living  heart 
With  a  quick,  unfaltering  art, 

Hath  power  to  make  the  listener  cry : 

"  God  in  heaven !  It  is  I." 


MERIDIAN  229 

MERIDIAN 


HENCEFORTH  before  these  feet 
Sinks  the  downward  way ; 
A  little  while  to  greet 
The  light  and  life  of  day, 
Then  night's  slow  fall 
Ends  all. 


Now  forward,  heart  elate, 
Though  steep  the  pathway  slope. 
Time  yet  for  love  and  hate, 
Joy,  and  joy's  shadow,  hope, 
Ere  night's  slow  fall 
Ends  all. 

in 

Still  the  warm  sky  is  blue, 
No  fleck  the  sunlight  mars ; 
'Twixt  hills  the  sea  gleams  through ; 
With  twilight  come  the  stars ; 
And  night's  slow  fall 
Ends  all. 

IV 

In  the  cool-breathing  night 

The  starry  sky  is  deep. 

Still  on  through  glimmering  light 

Till  we  lie  down  to  sleep  ; 

Then  let  night's  fall 

End  all. 


230  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

EVENING   IN  TYRINGHAM   VALLEY 

WHAT  domes  and  pinnacles  of  mist  and  fire 

Are  builded  in  yon  spacious  realms  of  light 
All  silently,  as  did  the  walls  aspire 

Templing  the  ark  of  God  by  day  and  night ! 
Noiseless  and  swift,  from  darkening  ridge  to  ridge, 

Through  purple  air  that  deepens  down  the  day, 
Over  the  valley  springs  a  shadowy  bridge. 

The  evening  star's  keen,  solitary  ray 
Makes  more  intense  the  silence,  and  the  glad, 

Unmelancholy,  restful,  twilight  gloom  — 
So  full  of  tenderness,  that  even  the  sad 

Remembrances  that  haunt  the  soul  take  bloom 
Like  that  on  yonder  mountain. 

Now  the  bars 

Of  sunset  all  burn  black ;  the  day  doth  fail, 
And  the  skies  whiten  with  the  eternal  stars. 

Oh,  let  thy  spirit  stay  with  me,  sweet  vale ! 


PART   III 
A   WEEK'S   CALENDAR 

I— NEW  YEAR 

T^ACH  New  Year  is  a  leaf  of  our  love's  rose; 
JH/  It  falls,  but  quick  another  rose-leaf  grows. 
So  is  the  flower  from  year  to  year  the  same, 
But  richer,  for  the  dead  leaves  feed  its  flame. 

II— A  NEW  SOUL 

To  SEE  the  rose  of  morning  slow  unfold 

Each  wondrous  petal  to  that  heart  of  gold ; 

To  see  from  out  the  dark,  unknowing  night 

A  new  soul  dawn  with  such  undreamed-of  light, 

And  slowly  all  its  loveliness  and  splendor 

Pour  forth  as  stately  music  pours,  magnificently  tender! 

Ill— "KEEP   PURE   THY   SOUL" 

KEEP  pure  thy  soul ! 
Then  shalt  thou  take  the  whole 
Of  delight ; 
Then,  without  a  pang, 

Thine  shall  be  all  of  beauty  whereof  the  poet  sang  — 
The  perfume,  and  the  pageant,  the  melody,  the  mirth 
Of  the  golden  day,  and  the  starry  night; 
Of  heaven,  and  of  earth. 
Oh,  keep  pure  thy  soul ! 
231 


232  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

IV— "THY   MIND.  IS   LIKE   A   CRYSTAL 
BROOK" 

i 

THY  mind  is  like  a  crystal  brook 
Wherein  clean  creatures  live  at  ease, 
In  sun-bright  waves  or  shady  nook. 
Birds  sing  above  it, 
The  warm-breathed  cattle  love  it, 
It  doth  sweet  childhood  please. 


Accursed  be  he  by  whom  it  were  undone, 
Or  thing  or  thought  whose  presence 
The  birds  and  beasts  would  loathly  shun, 
Would  make  its  crystal  waters  foully  run, 
And  drive  sweet  childhood  from  its  pleasance. 


V— "ONE    DEED    MAY   MAR   A   LIFE" 

ONE  deed  may  mar  a  life, 

And  one  can  make  it ; 
Hold  firm  thy  will  for  strife, 

Lest  a  quick  blow  break  it ! 
Even  now  from  far  on  viewless  wing 
Hither  speeds  the  nameless  thing 

Shall  put  thy  spirit  to  the  test. 
Haply  or  e'er  yon  sinking  sun 

Shall  drop  behind  the  purple  West 
All  shall  be  lost  —  or  won ! 


IRREVOCABLE  233 


VI— THE   UNKNOWN 

How  strange  to  look  upon  the  life  beyond 

Our  human  cognizance  with  so  deep  awe 

And  haunting  dread ;  a  sense  as  of  remorse, 

A  looking-for  of  judgment,  a  great  weight 

Of  things  unknown  to  happen !     We  who  live 

Blindly  from  hour  to  hour  in  very  midst 

Of  mysteries ;  of  shapeless,  changing  glooms ; 

Of  nameless  terrors ;  issues  vast  and  black ; 

Of  airy  whims,  slight  fantasies,  and  flights 

That  lead  to  unimaginable  woe : 

The  unweighed  word  cloying  the  life  of  love ; 

One  clod  of  earth  outblotting  all  the  stars ; 

Some  secret,  dark  inheritance  of  will, 

And  the  scared  soul  plunges  to  conscious  doom ! 

Thou  who  hast  wisdom,  fear  not  Death,  but  Life ! 


VII  —  IRREVOCABLE 

WOULD  the  gods  might  give 

Another  field  for  human  strife; 

Man  must  live  one  life 

Ere  he  learns  to  live. 

— Ah,  friend,  in  thy  deep  grave, 

What  now  can  change,  what  now  can  save  ? 


PART  IV 
SONGS 

BECAUSE  THE    ROSE   MUST   FADE 


BECAUSE  the  rose  must  fade, 
Shall  I  not  love  the  rose  ? 
Because  the  summer  shade 

Passes  when  winter  blows, 
Shall  I  not  rest  me  there 
In  the  cool  air  ? 

ii 

Because  the  sunset  sky 

Makes  music  in  my  soul, 

Only  to  fail  and  die, 

Shall  I  not  take  the  whole 

Of  beauty  that  it  gives 

While  yet  it  lives  ? 

in 

Because  the  sweet  of  youth 
Doth  vanish  all  too  soon, 

Shall  I  forget,  forsooth, 

To  learn  its  lingering  tune ; 

My  joy  to  memorize 

In  those  young  eyes  ? 


"FADES  THE  ROSE"  235 

IV 

If,  like  the  summer  flower 

That  blooms, —  a  fragrant  death, — 
Keen  music  hath  no  power 

To  live  beyond  its  breath, 
Then  of  this  flood  of  song 
Let  me  drink  long ! 


Ah,  yes,  because  the  rose 

Doth  fade  like  sunset  skies; 

Because  rude  winter  blows 

All  bare,  and  music  dies  — 

Therefore,  now  is  to  me 

Eternity ! 


"FADES  THE  ROSE" 


FADES  the  rose ;  the  year  grows  old ; 
The  tale  is  told ; 
Youth  doth  depart  — 
Only  stays  the  heart. 

ii 

Ah,  no !  if  stays  the  heart, 

Youth  can  ne'er  depart, 

Nor  the  sweet  tale  be  told  — 

Never  the  rose  fade,  nor  the  year  grow  old. 


236  FIVE   BOOKS   OF   SONG 

THE   WINTRY   HEART 


ON  the  sad  winter  trees 

The  dead,  red  leaves  remain, 
Though  to  and  fro  the  bleak  winds  blow, 

And  falls  the  freezing  rain. 

ii 

So  to  the  wintry  heart 

Clings  color  of  the  past, 
While  through  dead  leaves  shudders  and  grieves 

The  melancholy  blast. 


HAST  THOU   HEARD  THE   NIGHTINGALE  ? 


YES,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 
As  in  dark  woods  I  wandered, 
And  dreamed  and  pondered, 
A  voice  passed  by  all  fire 
And  passion  and  desire ; 
I  rather  felt  than  heard 
The  song  of  that  lone  bird ; 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

ii 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 
I  heard  it,  and  I  followed ; 
The  warm  night  swallowed 


"IN  THAT  DREAD,  DREAMED-OF  HOUR"  237 

This  soul  and  body  of  mine, 
As  burning  thirst  takes  wine, 
While  on  and  on  I  pressed 
Close  to  that  singing  breast ; 
Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

in 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 
Well  doth  each  throbbing  ember 
The  flame  remember; 
And  I,  how  quick  that  sound 
Turned  drops  from  a  deep  wound ! 
How  this  heart  was  the  thorn 
Which  pierced  that  breast  forlorn ! 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 


"IN  THAT  DREAD,  DREAMED-OF  HOUR" 

i 

IN  that  dread,  dreamed-of  hour 

When  in  her  heart  love's  rose  flames  into  flower, 
'T  is  never,  never  yes, 

But  no,  no,  no,  whate'er  the  startled  eyes  confess. 

ii 

Her  frail  denial  at  last 

Swept  clean  away  like  burnt  leaves  in  the  blast 
No  longer  no,  no,  no  ! 

But  yes,  forever  yes,  while  love's  red  rose  doth  blow. 


238  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

''ROSE-DARK  THE  SOLEMN  SUNSET" 


ROSE-DARK  the  solemn  sunset 
That  holds  my  thought  of  thee ; 

With  one  star  in  the  heavens 
And  one  star  in  the  sea. 

n 

On  high  no  lamp  is  lighted, 
Nor  where  the  long  waves  flow, 

Save  the  one  star  of  evening 
And  the  shadow  star  below. 

in 

Light  of  my  Life,  the  darkness 
Comes  with  the  twilight  dream; 

Thou  art  the  bright  star  shining, 
And  I  but  the  shadowy  gleam. 


"WINDS  TO  THE  SILENT  MORN" 


WINDS  to  the  silent  morn ; 

Waves  to  the  ocean ; 
Voice  to  the  song  unsung ; 

Song  to  emotion ; 
Light  to  the  golden  flower ; 

Bird  to  the  tree; 
Love  to  the  heart  of  love, 
'And  I  to  thee! 


THE   UNRETURNING  239 

I! 

Dawn  to  the  darkened  world ; 

Hope  to  the  morrow ; 
Music  to  passion  ;  and 

Weeping  to  sorrow ; 
Love  to  the  heart  that  longs ; 

Moon  to  the  sea ; 
Heaven  to  the  earthborn  soul, 

And  thou  to  me. 


THE   UNRETURNING 

i 

SILENT,  silent  are  the  unreturning ! 

What  though  word  may  reach  to  them,  and  yearning, 

Never  through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

Never  in  the  _daytime  or  the  dark 

Comes  the  long-lost  voice,  or  smile  of  light ; 

Lifts  no  hand  from  sea  or  sunken  bark. 

Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning ! 


ii 

Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning ! 
Silent  they? — or  are  we  un discerning ? 
Child,  my  child,  is  this  thy  answering  voice 
Murmuring  far  down  the  mountain  lone  ? 
Evening's  smile,  that  whispers :  "  Heart,  rejoice !  " 
Mother  mine,  is  this  thy  very  own  ? 
Nay !  nay !    Silent  are  the  unreturning ; 
Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning  ! 


240  FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 

TWO   YEARS 


OH,  that  was  the  year  the  last  of  those  before  thee ; 

All  my  world  till  then  but  dark  before  the  dawn. 
If  then  I  had  died,  oh,  never  had  I  known  thee, 
Never  had  beheld  thee ;  I  who  won,  who  own  thee ; 
Who  chose  thee,  who  sing  thee,  crown  thee,  and  adore 
thee; 

Oh,  death  it  were  indeed  to  die  before  that  dawn ! 


This  was  the  year  when  first  I  did  behold  thee, 

Thou  who  on  my  darkness  dawned  with  lyric  light. 
This  the  golden  hour  when  first  thy  lover  found  thee. 
Followed  and  beguiled  thee,  and  with  his  singing  bound 

thee; 
When  all  the  world  with  music  rang  to  drown  thee  and 

enfold  thee  — 

Thou  who  turned  the  darkness  to  song,  and  love,  and 
light ! 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI 


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